My Faire Lord: A Renaissance Flair - Book 1 Read online

  Turning his finger, Danny continued as he pointed down the hall toward the restaurant and kitchens, “And last I saw M’Lady Clara, she had kidnapped Kelly the Red and drug her off to grab some dinner.” Danny glanced at the corner of his monitor, “That was about an hour or so ago, though, but I haven’t seen them pass by since, so they may still be there.”

  Already moving toward the hall that led toward the restaurant, Rik called over his shoulder, “Thanks, Dan-Man, I’ll catch you later.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Danny’s laughing response trailed after the departing Rik, leaving the younger Sidhe shaking his head in bemusement as he watched Rik walking with a rather hurried, determined stride toward the restaurant. He apparently really needed to talk to his youngest sister. With a shrug, Danny went back to working on his homework. He had a class in Economics he needed to pass, or his father would have his hide made into a jacket for his mother.

  Chapter 9

  “So Rik has always been anal about his stuff,” Clara went on over Sam’s laughter, one hand waving wildly through the air as she illustrated her story, the other holding on to what had to be her fourth glass of wine. Not that Sam was really certain of that, since she had been matching the other woman glass for glass. It was really good wine! “Like, OCD should be spelled R-I-K level of anal. Anyways, I was playing with my Barbies, and decided that Barbie really, really needed to date G.I. Joe, right? I mean, obviously! Ken’s totally gay, and Barbie was holding out for a hero til the morning light!”

  Sam nodded her head in agreement as she waved for Clara to continue. Granted, her Barbies had preferred He-Man, since he was all big, brawny, and blond, and G.I. Joes were like half his size, but whatever. Semantics.

  Pausing to take a deep gulp of her expensive wine like it had come out of a vacuum-packed box, Clara continued, “Rik kept his collection in this display case, like they were trophies or something. So one day, while he was out training, I decided I needed a Joe, so I snuck into his room all ninja-like, figuring I could get in and get out with no one the wiser. I mean, he just collected them, never played with them. They were even in their original packaging and everything. But I thought I could totally put them back in, glue the boxes back closed, and he would never notice.”

  Clara lifted her glass, stopping in her monologue to stare blearily into the empty depths. “I think someone stole my wine!” She squinted suspiciously over at Sam, who was finishing up her own glass at that moment. With a gusty sigh, Clara snagged the bottle and poured them both another round, finishing up the second bottle. “Where was I?” she asked plaintively.

  “Discussing how your brother is an obsessive-compulsive dick,” Sam replied instantly, brightly, a chipper grin on her rosy-cheeked face. Yep, she was a little past three sheets to the wind now, but it was the first time in months that she felt more herself. Squinting through her glasses, Sam wrinkled her nose and tugged them off, shutting her eyes tightly against the chaotic swirls of light that danced around Clara’s upper body. Blues, greens, pinks, every damn color of the rainbow had decided that Clara was a dancing pole and they were candy-colored strippers.

  “Aw, sweetie, what’s wrong?” Clara’s voice was concerned, and Sam felt a light hand clumsily pat her own as she fumbled with trying to clean the lenses with the hem of her flannel shirt.

  Cracking open one eye, seeing Clara’s concerned expression, Sam gave a helpless giggle as she said, “You’re too pretty.”

  Clara jerked her hand back, “Uh, Sam, I’m flattered and all that, but…”

  Chortling, snorting, and nearly toppling over, Sam managed to gasp out, “Not that way!” Plopping her glasses back on the edge of her nose, Sam drew herself up and sneered, her lips twitching as she said, “But bitch, you’d be so lucky to have me butch to your femme!”

  This time, it was Sam who had to pat Clara’s hand as the other woman choked on her chug of wine. Waving Sam’s assistance off, Clara very carefully placed her glass back on the table with her entire focus on making sure it didn’t topple over—or the contents get stolen again—before she managed, “Then thanks. I think.”

  Deciding that it was better to be blunt, Sam’s expression turned serious as she leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially, “I meant your aura. You glow like freaking Rainbow Brite at a rave. It’s pretty, but rather straining on the eyes.”

  Blinking slowly, Clara leaned in to likewise whisper, “My aura?”

  Nodding slowly, Sam gave her a half-hearted grin. “My dad said I inherited the Sight from my gram. Seems to run in the females in his family.”

  Clara blinked more rapidly now as she digested Sam’s revelation. Carefully enunciating each syllable, Clara replied, “So, you are telling me that you see auras and spirits?”

  “Yep, have since I was a kid,” Sam said simply. She tapped the edge of her glasses, “When I’m wearing glasses, though, I don’t see anything, but without them, I see things that aren’t…normal.”

  “Dead people?” Clara squeaked, looking green around the gills as her head jerked wildly around as she cast about for invisible spectres from beyond the grave.

  “Yeah, sometimes them, too,” Sam admitted, “But those are usually few and far between. Only certain spirits linger, mostly they just seem to dissipate. I’ve never seen a poltergeist or anything like that, just weird echoes. Mostly, though, I tend to see the really real world, and let me tell you, some things you can’t just unsee once you’ve seen them!”

  “And when you look at me, what do you see?” Clara asked, then grinned, “Besides the spaztastic rainbow?”

  Sam gave Clara The Look, then sighed dramatically as she yanked her glasses off and squinted at the other woman. Clara’s aura had reshaped itself, wisps snaking off her, gently stroking along the table and even curling around the wine glass. Some of the wisps attempted to touch Sam, but they shuddered away from her. Tilting her head slightly, squinting just a bit more, Sam snorted a laugh. The light flickering around Clara’s face was like a second face, identical in an eerie way, forming a grinning mien. Clara’s real face, beneath the façade, however, was twisted in one of those faces that Sam’s mother had always warned her not to make: tongue sticking out, eyes bugging out and crossed, and while the glowing afterimage of her hand was still wrapped around her wineglass, her real hand was perched on her forehead with her beautifully manicured fingers lifting the tip of her nose to give her a snout.

  “Okay, so you better hope no one slaps your back, otherwise your face is going to freeze like that, and trust me, it’s not a pretty look,” Sam finally managed to get out between her snorting giggles. Guh, now she sounded like a stuck pig.

  As Clara lowered her hand…the real one…the rainbow mist swirled back until it was once more masking her body, duplicating her movements precisely. Putting her glasses back on, Sam found the pretty blonde woman staring at her in shock.

  “You can see through my glamour,” Clara muttered softly before she picked up her wineglass and chugged it like a thirsty frat boy with one hand, while waving her other hand to indicate one of the servers should bring another bottle over. She continued to stare oddly at Sam until after the server had left, and while she poured another glass of the rich red wine, she finally said, “Damn, Sam, does anyone else know about this?”

  With a shake of her head, Sam murmured, “No, just my family. It’s sort of an open secret with them. My mother doesn’t like to talk about it at all, so out of respect for her, we’ve always kept it quiet. And my dad always told me that if I saw something that upset me, I should tell my brothers and they’d take care of it.” She grinned sheepishly, “I’ve got four older brothers, and all four of them are rather…overprotective. I had to beg them not to go and skin ‘The Bastard’ alive after ‘The Event.’”

  Giggling like the drunken loon she was, Clara scooted her chair around the small table until she was next to Sam. Looping one arm around the smaller woman’s shoulders, she waved the other extravagantly to indicate the now crowded dining
room. “Okay then, tell me what you see.”

  Refilling her own wineglass, Sam leaned back with a giggle. “Fine, but you owe me a slice of cheesecake for this,” she told Clara as she hooked a finger on the bridge of her glasses and slid them down her nose as she let her eyes roam over the crowd.

  “Hm, let’s see,” Sam said thoughtfully. Tapping the tip of her nose as her eyes swung slowly across the room, she said, “That server, the one who keeps hooking us up with wine, has a second skin like a fox, he’s all red fur and mischief, so probably a werefox or something like that.” She turned her attention to a group of cackling women, of various ages, shapes, dress, and nationalities, who, like Clara and Sam, had apparently spent a little too much time getting up close and personal with Bacchus’ favorite fruits. “The group over there, all of their auras mesh, like braided garlands, and you can almost catch the scent of rich loam and herbs, so I’m guessing witches of some sort.”

  From the corner of her eye, Sam caught a shimmer of something like warm sunlight, a brilliant gold that caught her attention and drew her gaze to the hostess station near the main entrance from the Château. Framed in the doorway, casting his eyes around like he was looking for someone, was the source of that sunlight.

  Like Clara, the man’s aura was too vivid, almost too bright, but where Clara’s was hypnotic to the point of nearly triggering seizures, his was like staring straight into the heart of the sun. Yet, her eyes didn’t water; instead, the light reached out to her, warming her, filling even the deepest, darkest cracks in her heart and soul. She wanted to stretch like a lazy feline and just soak in that light.

  The man wore that aura like a suit of armor, the edges precise and controlled, with flickers of brilliant silver and…Sam squinted…over his heart, she could just catch the hint of a scarlet pulsing light that thrummed with such intensity, it made her catch her breath.

  Quickly pushing her glasses back up so she could see the man clearly, without the intense aura overwhelming her, Sam’s breath escaped her in a low, soft whistle. Wow.

  An old, battered Broncos ball cap was pulled low over the man’s forehead, obscuring his eyes, but from what she could see of his face, he had a strong jawline, with sensual lips and a patrician nose. A Broncos sweatshirt, that had seen the inside of a washing machine enough to render the once dark blue fabric just a shade darker than the man’s denim jeans, did little to conceal the man’s broad shoulders and muscular arms, with the sleeves pushed up to reveal strong forearms lightly dusted with golden hair and large, strong hands that were currently fisted at his sides. The worn denim that hugged his lower body had Sam sending a mental prayer of thanks to the denim god, Levi, because the cut emphasized his lean waist and powerful thighs.

  Sam’s internal whimper must have escaped, since she heard Clara ask, “Sam, why are you drooling? You look like you just woke up on Christmas morning to find a naked Hugh Jackman wrapped in a pretty red bow!”

  Drooling? Drooling was bad. Very unattractive! Quickly, Sam reached up to wipe her mouth. Not finding any drool, she gave Clara a glare, only to see the blonde was trying to stifle a laugh as she peered blearily toward the front of the restaurant.

  Turning to give Sam a sympathetic pat on the shoulder, Clara said, “Oh no, sweetie, that’s my brother you’re drooling over. You know, Sir Buttmunch of the OCD?”

  Well, shit. Mr. Hot Hunk of Beef is Mr. O-C-Dick. Maybe I should go lesbian. Less drama!

  Chapter 10

  Rik squinted as he struggled to see through the dim light of the restaurant, which was only lit by a gentle illumination to give the illusion of privacy, with most of the light coming from the roaring fire crackling merrily in the central fire pit. From the pounding of his heart, and the tingles tracing electric paths along the flesh of his left pectoral, oh, and don’t forget the nervous perspiration dotting his forehead and trickling down his spine, she was close. Sam. Samantha. Ms. Kelly. My anam cara.

  “Mr. Leon, would you like a table, sir?” The perky young hostess beamed up at him, her brown eyes as warm as her smile as the petite teenager picked up one of the leather-bound menus.

  Rik gave her a distracted smile, “Sorry, Beth, just looking for someone. No, don’t need a table, thanks.”

  Finally spotting his quarry, he found Sam and Clara sitting close to one another at one of the smaller tables located near the kitchen. The two women, one with hair a pale blonde, the other whose flame-kissed tresses glowed in the firelight, were staring at him. He couldn’t resist the cocky grin that crossed his face, nor the instinctual need to puff up his chest just so and clench his fists to make his arms flex.

  Then Clara whispered something into Sam’s ear with a giggle, drawing the redhead’s attention. When Sam looked back at him, the glare could be felt across the room and damn near sent him back a pace. For such a tiny bit of a woman, the force of her personality rivaled that of the Sidhe nobility. Damn, that made his dick ache with the violence of blood rushing to his second head.

  Never one to back down from a confrontation, though, Rik sauntered toward their table. He nodded his head, tipping his ball cap at a few of the faces he recognized, and the smile he gave the table of witches earned him a few titters and the batting of eyes, but his attention never left the tiny but fierce woman who continued to glare at him.

  “Good evening, sister dear,” he said politely, barely glancing at Clara, who had her hands wrapped over her stomach and was trying to muffle her giggling. He really didn’t want to know how much wine his baby sister had consumed, but at least she lived on the Estates, so she would get home without a problem.

  Looking down into the stormy gray eyes glaring up at him from behind the lenses of her black-framed glasses, Rik gave her his most charming smile. “And good evening to you as well, Ms. Kelly.”

  “I’d say call me Sam,” she muttered as she took a sip from her wine glass and turned her attention away from him, an obvious snub that only made him grin wider when she continued, “But we’re not friends, so Ms. Kelly will do.”

  Rik took a few moments to just visually gorge on his anam cara’s presence. As he had noted earlier, she had to be barely five feet in height, and the men’s dark red-and-black plaid flannel shirt was a few sizes too large for her, concealing her frame, but even that couldn’t hide the bounty of her breasts as they strained the buttons. The top few buttons had been left undone, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of her cleavage that his height rewarded him with, and sure enough, there was a smattering of those freckles of hers just visible against her pale, creamy flesh.

  When she turned back to look at him, and noticed his attention was fixed on her breasts, she gave him a haughty huff that drew his attention back to her scowling face. Gods above and below, she’s stunning when she’s angry. Her face was not classically beautiful, a little too round, with rounded cheeks at odds with her stubborn chin, and she was apparently only wearing minimal make-up this evening, as he could see the freckles that damn near kissed every visible inch of flesh. They didn’t detract from her looks, instead they gave her face a unique character that was more potent than a perfect ivory complexion could ever hope to be. At least if his dick was any judge, and let’s face it, Rik’s dick was the most important judge of all. Right? She was the sexiest little librarian-turned-lumberjack ever, Rik’s dick had decided.

  As he shifted uncomfortably, trying to ease the pressure of his dick straining against denim, eager to meet its mate, he was glad his sweatshirt hung low to hide what would otherwise be a rather obvious bulge straining to poke out Sam’s eye. Rik only distantly noticed the silver hoop that pierced her right nostril, or the small glittering emerald stud placed on her upper left lip, as his attention was caught by the purse of her plump lips that glistened with a faint glossy sheen. I wonder where else she’s pierced? Maybe we should get matching piercings to go with our matching ma…

  “Earth to Rik, Earth to Rik…oh, Rikky Boy,” Clara mockingly sing-songed, finally dragging his attention from Sam, who had
begun to squirm before the intensity of his regard.

  Smirking at the expression on his face, Clara batted her big green eyes up at him as she asked, “Are you planning on looming and staring all night, or are you going to tell us why you’re here?”

  Sweeping off his ball cap, Rik pulled over a chair and sat down, without waiting for an invitation—or a refusal. Snapping his fingers to draw the server’s attention, he barely muffled his grin at Sam’s grumbling and Clara’s snorting giggles. He likewise ignored them as they began furiously whispering to one another in what appeared to be an intense discussion. About him, no doubt.

  “Carter, could you bring me the usual?” Rik asked the server, a young fox shifter who, like many of the younger staff, attended the University of Colorado in Boulder. Carter was barely 19, with dark auburn hair and a sunny, charming smile that made him popular amongst the guests. The dark red poet’s shirt and black trousers worn by the staff hung a little loose on his rangy, wiry build, so Rik made a mental note to see about suggesting better outfits for some of the more slender staff.

  “Oh! And two slices of Bertie’s cheesecake, please!” Clara piped up, followed by Sam’s low, husky voice adding, “And maybe two cups of coffee? Think I’ve had more than enough wine for the night.”

  With a laugh, Carter nodded and headed off to put in their orders, leaving Rik once more to meet the glaring eyes of his soulmate.

  While the word soulmate was banded about quite often in Mortal popular culture, to the Sidhe, the Fae, and all the races that comprised the Uncanny Ones, it was another thing entirely. They had adopted the Irish Gaelic term anam cara centuries ago to describe it, but a person’s soulmate, or soulmates in some cases, were those individuals who completed one another. It was like discovering that all your life, you had been missing your arm or your hand. You could live every day without it, compensate for it, and some days never even notice its lack. But suddenly, you meet that missing piece, and everything clicks into place. The world seems brighter, tastes you never noticed before exploding on your tongue, your entire life was simply made more complete.