Micah looked across his desk at Ophilia as she worked to restore a set of decorated armor for the new medieval collection. A good many of the weapons belonged to him. The armor didn’t. Most people from that era stood a good foot shorter than him. He had a suit of armor. He’d buried it under a house in the southeast of Spain. He didn't have much use for it. To tell the truth, he'd only ever worn it to avoid awkward questions.
He caught himself woolgathering, not uncommon when he watched Ophilia. He didn't mind at all. She moved across her work with the grace of a dancer. Her joy in her work mesmerized him, left him enchanted all over again. They’d been together almost forty years now, and he had no intention of ever leaving her.
With a heartfelt wistful sigh he tore his eyes from his beloved Ophilia and looked back at the books on his desk. They told a tale less pleasant than the beauty of his wife. Red ink filled them, with the occasional large donation barely keeping them afloat. Too few people wanted to come to the museum. Micah didn't have the budget to put on big advertising campaigns. He'd tried ads in a few local papers, but nothing had worked.
The attitude of the local youth was a large part of the problem. In times past, kids flocked to the museum. Now they avoided it. Micah had some ideas to pull them in, but getting the money to implement his ideas would take an influx of cash, and getting that would take some of the ideas in his head...
His thoughts whipped into a death spiral and raised his gaze back to Ophilia. After this long with her, he didn't jump to see her eyes only inches from his own. Instead he simply stared, enthralled with the play of light sparkling from the emeralds of her eyes. She grinned at him and leaned over, careful of his books as only an art restorer could be, and kissed him firmly on the lips.
As she pulled away, her voice tickled his ears, sounding of bells and laughter.
“So, are we dead yet?”
“Not yet. Another year or so at the outside before the bank decides to foreclose.”
She frowned, the expression foreign to her face. “Upset that I convinced you to buy the place?”
“Not in the slightest.” He reached out and ran a finger up the line of her jaw, ending at the curve of her outsized Sidhe ears. She leaned into his caress, and he swore one of her feline tattoos purred.
“I'm not upset we bought the place,” he reiterated, “but we do need to figure out ways to bring the kids in.”
“Why aren't they coming now?”
“Probably because there's nothing to play with here.”
The moment he spoke, his love's eyes went wide, a green glow leaking from the edges. She didn't get these bouts of inspired artistic greatness often, but Micah had learned how to react to them quickly. The Words in his head, the magic that gave him life, pushed him to help her create her Art. He grabbed a pad of paper and a pen. Before she could say anything, he shoved both into her hands. She looked down at them for a moment, brow furrowing in confusion about the objects she held. She touched the pen to the paper and her whole expression lit up. Literally.
Her hands danced across the paper; the pen dragged along behind to leave a record of her thoughts. She walked through the room, ripping off pages as she filled them, carelessly dropping them on the floor behind her. Micah carefully followed along behind her, gathering up the paper without looking at it. If he looked, he would comment. If he commented, she would stop drawing. If she stopped drawing, she would be cranky for days.
After half an hour, she slowed down. Her pen wandered off the edge of the page, then dropped from fingers gone nerveless. Micah set the papers on his desk and swept in behind her, catching her before she could fall. As he carried her back to her chaise lounge, she snuggled into him. Her voice muzzy with exhaustion, it still held a satisfied, satiated tone that he loved.
“You’re too good to me.”
“Hush. Do you remember any of it?”
She perked up; unusual after a bout of creation. “Actually, yeah. Let’s put on a play.”
“Phil, I don’t know how to tell you this, but we don’t have the money to put on a play.”
“Sure we do. I can do the costuming. You can call in some favors to do the promotion work. The staff can do the acting.”
Micah tried to keep his voice level, but some of his doubt must have leaked through. “Have you seen Fred act?”
Phil laughed, and the sound scoured the doubts from him. “It’s okay, Micah. I was thinking of you and me taking the lead roles.”
He didn’t mean to, but he felt himself closing down. Very little of his past embarrassed him, but the risqué vignettes he’d starred in were not his proudest moments. His Words warred with his conscious mind, and pain spiked through his head. Phil saw his reaction and smirked at him, rolling her eyes in theatric frustration, largely faked.
“You’ll do fine, my Micah. You’ll wow the girls with your manly good looks, and make all the boys want to grow up to be museum directors, since they get all the hot elf chicks.”
His frown wavered, but he still couldn’t say anything good about the plan. She spoke again, her voice even more playful.
“Y’know, I wasn’t planning on any nudity on stage, because we’re aiming at school kids, but if you really can’t stand the thought of a play without a love scene, maybe we can rehearse that one right now?”
She could always disarm him with that, and she knew it. Since he didn’t mind being disarmed, he smiled at her and gave in to his affection. “You’re impossible.”
“You wouldn’t have me any other way. And I notice you’re intent on having me, so I’m glad I am.”
Minutes later, Murphy reminded them he still had control of the universe. As the last of their clothing hit the floor, the office phone rang. Ophilia groaned her frustration when Micah glanced away from her to the ringing phone. A moment later he joined her, giving voice to his reason when her bare legs slipped around his waist.
“It’s line three, love.” Line one was the public phone line. Line two was for employees. Line three was the special number given to donors and wealthy patrons. With the need for money looming over them, he couldn’t afford to ignore it.
“Ignore it.” The need in Phil’s voice was a palpable thing, stroking at him, pulling him into her.
“Can’t, love. Won’t be a minute.” He stood to go to the phone, and Phil pulled herself up onto him. Her ankles locked behind his waist, her wrists behind his neck.
“Yeah, no. You’ve got about two minutes before I’m going to stop being quiet. Talk fast, lover boy.” She suited deeds to words. She relaxed just a touch and he slid into her completely, then she settled into a slow, rocking rhythm, her eyes and silent grin mocking him.
The phone was still ringing. Ophilia leaned into him and whispered into his ear. “Ninety seconds, lover.”
Micah grabbed the phone with one hand and punched line three. With his other hand, he reached around and tangled his hand in her hair, his arm bracing her back. His voice betrayed nothing of his actions.
“Hello, curator’s office.”
From the other end of the line came Sammie’s cultured tones, “Micah! It’s been too long.”
“Hallo Sam. You know how it is. Running a museum eats up a lot of time.”
If Sammie’s tones carried a slight tinge of falsehood, Micah understood. Everything Sam did was an act. That didn’t mean he was lying. “What’s this I hear about your museum having some money problems?”
“Nothing immediate, Sam, but we have been hitting a rough patch. Not as many folks coming to see us these days.”
Sammie’s voice took on a solicitous tone bordering on patronizing. “I’m sure I could shake some funds free, if you needed them?”
Micah struggled to keep his voice firm, but polite. Ophilia made it harder, drawing in a long, shuddering breath as she slid her small, perfect breasts against him. “I appreciate the offer, Sam, but I’d rather not be any further in debt.”
“Micah, you wound me. I can be as generous as any mortal when donating to something worthwhile.”
A quiet, speculative noise came through the phone, nearly drowned out by Ophilia’s thick black and green striped hair brushing against his other ear.
“You know, I had a thought. You could do an event of some kind. I’ll provide the drinks and snacks and whatnot. I’ll have my staff use the good silver and crystal to keep the tone of the thing stylish. You charge for the tickets, and you can pay me some pittance for the catering out of your proceeds. You get a helpful influx of cash, I get to promote my new catering business, and the public gets some culture.”
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
Micah could barely follow Sammie’s words, but they seemed to make sense. He had to get Sammie off the phone. Phil’s pupils glimmered green, her muscles tensed and twitching, and she took another deep, long, shuddering breath.
“That sounds fantastic, Sam. I’ll need to talk to Ophilia about that. Could I call you back after we’ve discussed it?”
“Certainly, Micah. I expected nothing less. You’ve got the number. Give me a call whenever you’re done…discussing.”
Micah couldn’t bring himself to care about the knowing tone in Sammie’s voice. He said “Good Bye” as the handset headed for the cradle. The moment the line disconnected, he grabbed at Phil and added his motions to hers.
He was really glad they’d soundproofed the office.
***
Phil flipped idly through the notes from her creative trance; half of them sketches of costumes and sets, the other half evenly divided between dialogue and music. She had to pull it all together, but she really thought it would work.
“Micah?”
Micah’s deep rumble sounded from beneath her, where he lounged lazily. “Yes, love?”
“What did Sammie want?”
“He had an idea about helping us throw some kind of fundraiser. Catering and whatnot.”
Everything clicked into place. “Sweet! Take a look at this!”
“All right. What am I looking at?”
“An updated Romeo and Juliet. Nothing hugely special. It’s been done before, I know, but I tweaked the sets and dialogue to have a Philly feel to it. Ought to help get the kids interested at least.”
“I’ll call Sammie about it later.”
He slid his hands up her thighs, settling on her hips in a proprietary fashion. She couldn’t resist teasing hm. “Not now?”
“Yeah, no. Later.”
“So what are you going to be doing until…?” He pulled her down and silenced her with a kiss, then showed her what he would be doing.
***
A dark cloud drifted through the blue Caribbean sky, marring an otherwise perfect dome of cerulean. Below, island after island drifted beneath its malignant shadow. It sought something it could not find, but could not fail to know. Then, quite suddenly, the cloud became aware it was moving away from its goal.
It wafted back toward the last island. A momentary wash of power shook the vacant sky, and the mother of all rooks soared through the sky above the island. The power would alert her prey if they weren’t distracted. She looked down on the island, took in the blue water, the blue sky, and the white sand of the beach. They were distracted, she was certain.
The Morrigan, Goddess of Ravens and Queen of the Unseeleigh Sidhe, flew through the sky seeking some clue as to the whereabouts of two of her minions. One of the pair she sought was a master at hiding things. Worse, this was his home terrain, the place where he held the most power. His legend had been laid down again and again here, layers on layers until he could hide himself and his mate without conscious thought.
The idea that her minions could defy her, even in something as small as this, galled her. She remembered a time when her own people dared not say her name, when her enemies dared not think it. Now almost a parody of her old self, misty darkness her symbol and power, where it had once been blood and screams. Memory came easily as a rook, as did spite and vengeance, but sticking to a mission became hard. She looked down one more time, about to give up, when her prey’s arrogance cost him his hiding spot. Two long deck chairs, folded back to lay flat, crossed at the midpoints, covered with towels. X couldn’t resist showing off.
“There you are.” Another burst of power and a svelte feminine form, shrouded in darkness, settled slowly to the beach. As her toes touched the sand she allowed her darkness to dissipate. No mortal would see her here, and if the light of day discomforted her, she did not outright burn. Her current body found it quite pleasant. She took a moment as she walked to admire the play of light on her skin, so ebony dark that the highlights shone purple. Many of her tithes came from Africa now. An ongoing tithe trickled from Arabia, but here in the Caribbean, the African body fit the place better.
Appropriate or not, The Morrigan’s current form was less than it once was, but that did not mean she lacked power. Most of her court still thought her limitless. They compared her to their own puny incarnations. Arrogant old lord or squalling neophyte, she dwarfed them all into insignificance.
But she knew herself less than the Her of yesteryear. Fortunately, she was old and steeped in cunning, and smarter than the Her of yesteryear as well. The Morrigan planned now; her plans many layered things to make Machiavelli weep. She had learned so much from the mortals she’d once loathed with such a passion. Her favorite was the ‘win-win’ situation.
Of course, unlike mortals, she used ‘win-win’ to refer to how her plans played out for herself. Her pawns often felt less sanguine about their parts in her power plays. So they hid from her, like X and his little toy, Ricardo. Of course, they remained distracted. No one could spend more time fornicating than a pair of gay Pixies on vacation.
Her voice darkened the beach like a sudden raincloud. “X. Ricardo. Attend.”
The tiny, stifled cries of passion from beneath the chairs cut off as if with a switch. The barest exercise of power bonded the blankets to the sand beneath the chairs, cutting off her minions' escape route. Their swearing indicated they’d found that small fact out.
“We are in the uncomfortable position of being indebted to two of our minions. This situation cannot be allowed to continue. We can discharge the debt or remove the minions. We would rather not remove the two of you.”
The voice of the first Pixie to emerge first slurred badly. With the addition of Ricardo’s outrageous Spanish accent, the words were hard to understand. “You tell the badness of untruthing, Lady!”
While the concept of ‘win-win’ was a lovely one, The Morrigan was ambivalent about intoxication. With a thought, she banished the inebriation from both of her subjects. The Pixie queen, Ricardo, disappeared with a squeak, fleeing to the dubious safety of the crossed deck chairs. A deep, masculine voice, annoyed beyond measure by his sudden sobriety, sounded from beneath the chair.
“Who dat? I gonna hook you, dawg!”
“We presume that you are using none of the definitions of ‘hook’ with which we are familiar.”
The butch Pixie immediately lost the swagger in his voice. “Oh, shit.”
The dark goddess smiled. Seeing others in the grip of terror had that effect on her. “Why, X. It sounds almost like you aren’t happy to see Us.”
The Pixie knew when to fight, when to flee, and when to submit. The Morrigan had to grant him his due. If not, he was likely to steal it, along with anything else that wasn’t nailed down. It stroked her ego to know that in all the world, the only creatures to whom he would submit were herself and her errant daughter, Ophilia. He trudged out from under his hideaway, his eyes on the ground. He looked like a schoolboy called to task for misbehaving. She thought perhaps schoolboys wore more clothes, and had rather fewer tattoos. She couldn’t be certain. Good condition rarely described the ones delivered unto her.
She smiled down on him and caused a scroll to form in her hand. She held it out. It lay across her palm. X looked at the rolled parchment like a snake poised to strike.
“We have a task.” The Morrigan let the words hang in the air, taunting the Pixie, terrifying him as well. She so loved human bodies. They responded in the most delicious ways when things excited her. Her tongue darted out, tasting her lips. X saw, and his eyes went wide in unconcealed fright.
“Boss Lady…”
She pitched her voice to soothe. It didn’t work, of course, any more than a flamethrower could work as a fire extinguisher. “Read the task, X. As your liege and goddess, We command you.”
He flittered up and snatched away the scroll. Her presence terrified him, but he didn’t react at all to a scroll appropriately sized to both her and him at the same time. Warping time and space was beyond his power, but nothing save her actually frightened him. She watched him read through the task, his head shaking before he read more than halfway through. While he read, his paramour emerged from the hideaway, wrapped in a simple floral sari. She saw in his thoughts that he was trying to be modest, to fade into the background. She couldn’t have that. While X fidgeted, working his way word by word to the section that would make him explode, she played with his lover.
“Lady Ricardo. So nice to see you again.”
“Majesty. You do us the great honor with your visit.” Even she didn’t know how much of Ricardo’s accent was affected. That meant he didn’t either. If she were in a rush, the uncertainty would annoy her, but today, in this place, she felt languorous.
When she spoke, her voice embodied the purr of a great hunting cat. “When last We spoke with you, you wore such fashionable clothing. The word the humans use is avante garde?”
The purr of a great hunting cat was not comforting in any way to a creature the size and body weight of a bird. To a cougar, a twelve-inch Pixie would make a fantastic snack. Ricardo’s terror ebbed until he nearly wet himself, but she had invoked fashion. Ricardo could no more resist the pull of Jimmy Choo than X could resist hidden treasures or trickery, any more than she herself could resist the siren song of carrion crows.
“Majesty. Ricardo is humbled by this. You have remembered me.” His voice didn’t tremble, even when he did. His terror was delicious. She would reward him.
“We wish to update our wardrobe. Our… ‘look’. Yes, the humans use the word ‘look’ now. You will assist us.” Her voice dripped magnanimity. From Ricardo came a rush of awe and terror and delight. It was gloriously tasty, right up until he fainted. Right about then X worked his way to the explosion point. His voice boomed across the deserted beach, and he rose into the air until his eyes were level with hers.
“You want me to do what to who? You must be out of your eternally benighted mind!” X stopped, frozen, as he realized what he had just said, and to whom he had said it. To his credit, he kept his gaze locked on hers. This one wouldn’t faint. This one would spit in her eye at the last, should she desire it. That was always such fun, but she had more important tasks for him. Fortunately, she had bait never before offered a Pixie, bait she knew would pull him as much as the offer to go shopping had pulled Ricardo.
“X, Our Baron of the Spot, will you not perform this small service for us?” Her voice at its most regal, a liege asking a question of her vassal; an order in the form of a question. X froze in midair. When he hit the ground, his tiny frame absorbed the impact with the sand far better than a man might absorb such a fall. He stood rooted to the spot, his mouth working its way around the words. It was a full minute until the words became audible.
“Baron of the Spot. That’s the shit, Boss Lady. I’m gonna be a G, a made G? That not fair. That not fair at all.”
“We do not concern ourselves with ‘fair.’ We have a task. You, of all Our servants, have shown the knack for this task. You will complete Our task. We reward Our good and faithful servants, as all good lieges do.”
“Dat not what I…” X cut himself off with a muttered, “Idiot! Left you brains between Ricky boy’s butt cheeks.” He looked up at her, slowly lifted himself through the air until he looked her in the eye once more. “Boss Lady, I sweared to my girl I not gonna let him take this gig again. You tempt me bad.”
Inside, she smiled. She needed willing, competent servants. These two were each artists in their field, and she wanted their minds clear of magical compulsion. The corner of her mouth tried to quirk upward as she realized that she was championing free will. How odd. She let her voice drip with disappointment when she spoke. “That’s too bad. We had hoped...” Here a heartfelt sigh. She could be artistic, too, when it pleased her. “I had hoped we could visit the workroom of this Jimmy Choo human in the future. A few brownies are dying to visit his lair when he comes of age. Perhaps I could take them instead.”
The back of a Pixie in a sari immediately obscured her view of X. His voice rattled something in archaic Spanish, to which X replied with a firm “No!” Ricardo tried once more, this time whimpering, begging his lover to change his mind. This time the “No” wavered. Finally Ricardo turned away, glancing coyly back at X from the corner of his eye. “I’ll do that thing… with my wings…”
X threw his head back with a groan. “Okay, okay, stop whilin’ dawg, we goin’ do this thing. Chill.”
Ricardo obediently settled down, his posture demure as he flitted around to hover behind X’s left shoulder. X looked up at his liege lady and goddess, monumental terror held at bay by a mélange of greed and lust. His voice deep and full of pride, he accepted her task. “Okay, Boss Lady. You got yourself your Pixies. The Fairy Godfathers be on the job.”