Page 16 of Outside the Veil (Endangered Fae #1)

“I won’t do anything without your consent.

But if you’re worried about exposure, I don’t think there’ll be a problem.

Fiction is honest lying, you said. And I got all bent out of shape, but you’re right.

People want to suspend their disbelief while they read but with the understanding that it’s not true.

If I present it as fiction, no one would ever dream it’s true. ”

“Your deviousness astounds me,” Finn said in feigned shock, then he grinned. “I like that in a companion. But truly, why would you want to do this?”

“To save my writing career. That sounds really mercenary, doesn’t it?” Diego sank into the nearest chair, the realization of what he asked hitting hard. “I’m sorry. It’s a horrible thing to use you like that. I can’t believe I even thought about it.”

Finn perched hipshot on the table and put a hand under Diego’s chin to lift his head.

“It’s a wickedly marvelous idea. And if I can be your inspiration, I am more than pleased.

Diego, look at me. Your channels are all snarled.

Perhaps if you do this, the flotsam and debris will be swept away and let the streams flow again. ”

“Thank you. I have been in a nasty slump lately. But you have to understand. This came to me as something that would be a commercial success. Money, you understand? The something different that Miriam keeps prodding me to do.”

“Just so. Even better. If I can help put food on your table, I will tell you a thousand stories.”

Diego explained the tape recorder and once Finn had heard his own voice, there was no talking him out of it.

Tape recorder, camera, Diego and all had to be dragged out for long walks in the woods so Finn could think better.

Pictures of Finn were better outdoors as well, the dappled sunlight giving him a fallen angel mystique.

By the end of the week, Finn’s ribs had disappeared under a sleek layer of lean muscle, his body returning to the sculpted perfection Diego had caught hints of in the city.

He had to admit, the change of scenery proved beneficial for them both.

Despite nasty surprises like running face first into cobwebs and often getting his socks wet, he ate more, slept better, and began to come home from their walks refreshed rather than exhausted.

Normally, Diego would have agonized over how to begin, but with Finn’s deep voice as his constant companion while he typed, the book seemed to compile itself.

Preface—

I first met the pooka on the Brooklyn Bridge. Though desperately ill from pollution and iron poisoning, and half crazed with starvation, he still managed to find the courtesy to introduce himself and the humor to grant me a smile. His courage won me over and my trust has won his.

With the pooka’s full consent, this book contains selected transcripts of taped conversations with him in which I’ve asked questions about his life and his adventures.

As far as I can ascertain, this is the first serious foray any human has made into pooka research.

Since they are, by nature, solitary and suspicious of strangers, this is not altogether shocking.

However, our pooka, whom I will refer to as Thistle to protect his privacy, would like to set the record straight.

This then, is his life, in his own words.

Chapter 1—Beginnings

Why don’t we go back to the start? Do you know anything about your birth? Your parents?

“Pookas have no parents. Unless you count the Earth herself as our mother, for surely we must have sprung from somewhere. We simply are. One day I was not. The next day, I was.”

Do you have childhoods? Or are you fully grown when you spring forth, or parthenogenesize, or however you come into being?

“Oh, I think I take your meaning. I don’t recall ever being a smaller version of myself. And I have never met a pooka cub. Difficult to say. Perhaps I still am a child and will grow into something else.”

Diego inserted a picture here of Finn sitting shirtless at the kitchen table, his long hair pulled over one shoulder. He captioned it— Thistle empties the saltshaker out on the table and draws in the salt with his fingers while he talks.

So you’ve never had children?

(A long silence on the tape while Thistle leaves the room and returns somewhat flushed and agitated.)

“I’m not certain.”

But you may have?

“Perhaps. It’s a time-honored tradition for country girls to blame the local pooka when they are with child and wish to protect a human lover.

If every girl who claimed me as their child’s father spoke truly, I would have an ocean full of half-blooded progeny.

But most of them I never laid with. Or did so when they were out of season. There was once, though…”

Yes?

“I have a particular weakness. Ach, you’ll laugh. It’s catnip.”

(I’m ashamed to say I do laugh.)

“Fine, fine. All too amusing. But it has the same effect on me that a cask of wine would on you.

I came across this great, green patch of it one day and fully intended just a sniff.

Mayhap, a bit of a roll. But it was late spring and the sun was warm and once I had my nose in the stuff, I lost all track of my feet.

“So there I lay, head floating, feeling pleasantly numb, when a small herd of beautiful young maidens happened by. At least I believe they were beautiful. It may have been a catnip view of things.”

While you were lying there stark naked?

“Well, now, what do you think, boyo? It’s not as if I usually carry clothes with me for such occasions. Yes, in my natural state, stretched out helpless on the ground. They took a liking to me, cooed and fussed over me, but when they realized I was intoxicated rather than ill, they started to…”

(I’ve edited out much of what follows to avoid censorship issues.)

“…so a few months later I spotted them at the river again and all five of them were carrying, what was I to think?”

Did you ever see any of the children? Did they look like yours?

“One girl-child, perhaps. Raven-haired, a fey, wild thing. She lived well over a century.”

But you never told her?

“No. Should I have? I don’t know what good it would have done her.” (Thistle lays his head on his arms—another long pause on the tape.) “Is there ice cream? I think I’d like some about now.”

“Diego? Are we going out today? The rain has all but ceased.”

He looked up to find Finn leaning in the doorway in his favorite black jeans. They were the only concession he was willing to make clothing-wise, in case they ran into other hikers.

“Give me a minute to finish up. And let me find my boots.”

Finn held up the hiking boots in his left hand and the camera in his right.

“All right, I’m coming!” Diego surrendered with a laugh.

Mist curtained the woods that afternoon, creating phantom shapes in the distance and making Diego uncertain of the way, especially since Finn kept dashing off ahead.

He returned every time, excited by each new find—a rabbit’s warren, a tree frog, a handful of blackberries—but Diego couldn’t shake the feeling that each time he raced off into the swirling silver-gray fog, he would never come back.

Would that be a bad thing? This is where he belongs, not with me.

He trudged on another few steps, listening for the light rustle of Finn’s feet skimming over the leaves. But I’d miss him, damn it.

A sudden tightening in his chest overwhelmed him, and he sat down hard on a fallen tree trunk. A hand cupped his cheek. Finn had come back without a sound.

“You’re ill today? Diego, you should have said so.”

“I’m fine. I am.” He grabbed Finn’s hand and pulled him down on the log. “Just sit still a second, could you? I can’t keep up.”

“You don’t need to, my hero. I will always know where you are.” Finn hooked an arm around his shoulders and hugged him tight, shivers running through his long frame.

“What is it? Did something scare you?”

“No…not precisely. I thought I heard something in the far distance. But I couldn’t make it out, and then your pain stabbed at me.”

“I’m sorry. Oh, God, Finn, I never realized you could…”

“Hush.” Finn put a finger over his lips. “I block it out most times. It was simply that I listened so intently.”

“Do you know what it was?” He gazed into those black eyes, thousands of fathoms deep, and became acutely aware of Finn’s thigh pressed against his.

“No, it’s gone. I think I imagined it.” Finn’s hand slipped to the side of his face, index finger caressing the curves of his ear. “You’re so warm.” He brushed his lips over Diego’s, featherlight.

“Finn…”

“Yes, yes. My apologies.” Finn held up his hands and backed off. “Carried away in the moment. Are we going to the river or do I take you back to the house?”

“Let’s go on. I want a picture of you by the rocks. Or maybe on them. We’ll have to see if anything comes out in this light.”

Finn smiled and pulled him to his feet. “And if not, I still get my swim.”