Page 4 of Teas’d (Evergreen Council)
“I hopehe’s not too much longer.” Luc, who is pacing the cinema room where some of us watched a film earlier, is in danger of wearing a groove in an antique rug, but I don’t admonish him for his lack of consideration towards my soft furnishings. Lucien Bradshaw is a thoroughly decent young man, hard-working and forthright, and utterly besotted with Charley, which automatically raises him in my esteem. He’s still a wolf shifter, but we can’t have everything, and I’ve begun to realise that being loved, deeply and steadfastly, is what Charley needs. The love he gets from me hopefully helps, but there has always been an expectation that one’s parents will love you, and, of course, I missed out on the first nineteen years of his life. Luc’s love is given freely, and simply because Charley exists.
I glance across at Luc, the corners of my mouth twitching. “It doesn’t physically cause you pain to be apart, does it?”
Luc scowls, then quickly tempers it into a sigh. “No, but I don’t like it. I know he’s safe, of course, because he’s still on the grounds, but he’s been gone all night. Are you sure you didn’t make the clues too hard?”
Luc knows what I’ve done, and at first approved, calling it a clever way to make Charley think about the consequences of some of his more unconsidered actions. Now though, I can tell he’s bored with waiting and he’s ready to do whatever it is that two healthy young men in love do—ugh, I quickly steer my thoughts away from the idea of my offspring being a sexual being. He’s old enough, naturally, but I find I prefer to view him as more of a child than the fully-grown legal adult he is. If he asked for advice, I’d give it, but otherwise we coexist by mostly blanking out that part of each other’s life.
“The clues were challenging,” I admit to Luc. “But I have no doubt Charley is infused with enough grey matter to work them out. There would be no point in handing over the answers like so much cheap confectionery.”
“True,” Luc agrees. He perches on the very edge of an armchair for a second, then springs back to his feet. “He’s coming this way!”
Charley bursts through the door moments later, his face a mass of expressions, all of them positive. Without even looking in his beloved’s direction, he singles me out with the point of his forefinger.
“You…you…you absolute wanker!” he announces, stammering a little over his giggles, which appear to be hampering his ability to form sentences. “What a…fucking night! All that for a bloody soft toy.” He holds out the realistic bundle of stripy caramel fur in his hands for Luc to see. “Isn’t he gorgeous? Not the fucking real kitten I wanted, but I guess I didn’t deserve one after the bat vamp poster shit, sorry, Dad, but it was still a bit funny, right?” He rushes on without pausing for breath. “The box even had airholes punched in it. I’m so stupid, it didn’t occur to me that I couldn’t sense a heartbeat, so I was so bloody careful, not wanting to spook a…” more giggles, “…stuffed toy. Swear to God, I’m such a muppet.” He sinks into the nearest chair, arranging his prize like a real kitten on his lap, one hand protectively on its back to keep it from jumping down. I don’t think he knows he’s doing it. It’s rather sweet. Perhaps he would be a good pet parent. I’ve resisted his pleas to date, assuming his reckless nature wouldn’t be a good fit. Maybe being responsible for the welfare of something small and relatively helpless would encourage him to mature.
Luc sinks to his side, his anxiety non existent now his lover is back in the same tiny circle they do love to inhabit.
“You’ve named it already, haven’t you? I know you, Charley.”
“Him, not it. Have some respect for your fur son. He’s called Blake. Blakey right now, because he’s a baby, but Blake officially. Blake Entwhistle Millar-Bradshaw. Christ, that’s a mouthful. Poor kitty. That’s what you get when Grandpa is a bossyboots about surnames.” He rolls his eyes.
I choke over the casual use of Grandpa, my undead heart skipping a beat at the concept of one day hearing that word from my child’s child, and arch an eyebrow at said son.
“I merely suggested it would be appropriate to use my surname as well as the one your parents gave you.” I am always very careful not to diminish the folk who gave Charley a home and brought him up by adding the adjective ‘adoptive’. From everything I’ve gleaned about David and Nita Entwhistle, they had an impossible task with a half vampire, quarter Fae child — especially one who was oblivious to his nature but used it anyway — but they did their absolute best with Charley, and for that I will always be grateful. They don’t know it, but the Evergreen Council now includes the pair as part of our wider family and we keep a watchful eye on them. Nothing heavy, but if anything goes wrong, we’ll step in and try to put it right for them.
Charley makes a face which I choose to interpret as affectionate. Luc’s own eyebrows hitch. “Blake? That’s, uh, unexpected.”
Charley heaves a put-upon sigh. “Like the poet, dummy. William Blake, Tyger, tyger?”
“How is that relevant? Apart from,” Luc pauses and I see the cogs whirring as he decides how to phrase it. “Apart from our…fur son being kind of ginger.”
“He’s marmalade magnificence. How very dare you!” Charley sniggers. “It was one of the clues. Thank fuck it was an easy one ’cause my brain was mush after the one in the tower.” He groans. “I might have messed up the fire that was laid in the library. I’ll sort it in a bit. Sorry.”
“Pavel already relaid it, don’t fret about it. To be honest, I had assumed you would make more mess than you did, but you’ve been pretty good at not leaving a trail of destruction behind you.”
He eyes me. “I needed a shower and a change of clothes after crawling about in the attic.” He lowers his voice to a whisper. “Does the magic dampening in the house apply to the attic or could I persuade Isher to de-cobweb the place? Some of the corners are more spooky than Halloween at a vampire’s goth ball.”
I can’t stifle my chuckle at his dramatic turn of phrase. “I didn’t realise it had got so bad up there. I too had to wash and re-dress after laying the clue. But don’t worry, Pavel is champing at the bit to be let loose. No need to involve Isher.” I jerk my chin at the lifelike cat on his lap. “So, not too disappointed?”
He shakes his head quickly. “Not at all. Okay, I was for a moment, but only because I’m a bonehead who thought for a hot second that you’d reward me for fucking up. Blake is cute. And I know it’s not the same as having a real kitten, but I’m going to practise with him like he is. I’ll set alarms to feed him and brush him and play with him and?—”
“Empty his litter box.” Luc wrinkles his nose. “Which, if we ever got a real kitten would absolutely be your job.” He tilts the toy so he can see its face. “Nice whiskers. Oh yeah, add putting away our clean clothes as soon as you bring them up from the laundry room so they don’t get fur all over them. I don’t have any allergies but I am a wolf. I’m not sure it would do much for my street cred to rock up to a planning meeting at Milton’s with cat hair on my suit.”
My ridiculous son actually pouts at this. “A suit? Meetings? You’re not taking parental leave? Blake, d’you hear that? It’s gonna be just you and Papa all alone while Daddy goes off on business trips without us. I hope your tiny kitty memory is already well developed. I don’t want you hissing at him like he’s a stranger when he rocks back up smelling of corporate lunches and the big city.”
Luc and I stare at him in silent amazement for a few beats. Eventually, Luc queries in a choked tone, “Why don’t I get to be Papa?”
Charley rolls his eyes. “Because, as you once mentioned, or maybe a few times, I’m a total twink and a slutty, needy bottom. I’m hardly Daddy material, am I?” He shakes his head as if he’s never heard such a silly question. “Honestly, Luc. C’mon, Blakey. We need to set up your bed in the tower and show you around.” He waves a hand in my general direction as he scoops his furry prize under one arm and unwinds himself from the depths of the armchair. “See ya later, Pops.”
Luc, scarlet in the face, gets to his feet and without looking me in the eye still manages to mumble a polite goodbye. The poor boy. He looks as if he’d like nothing better than for the ground to swallow him up. I’m feeling rather sideswiped myself. Charley really hasn’t made as much progress as I’d have hoped in practising words in his head before allowing them to exit his mouth, but there’s no denying he seems blissfully happy to be…whatever he is to Luc.
I, however, am in need of brain bleach. I follow my nose and track Pavel down to the library. He’s bent over a book, pointing something out to Isher, and they’re both smiling. It’s good to see another friendship blooming among my staff. Pavel straightens.
“Do you need me, master?”
“Wrist, now.” I’m terse as I’m not sure how I feel about Isher watching me feed, but I don’t think it’s reasonable to ask him to leave us. My drinking blood can be no more personal than knocking back a mug of coffee or a glass of indifferent wine, so something’s got my head in a spin.
Pavel unbuttons and bends back his cuff, then adds two more quick folds. “Here, or…?” He hesitates. Does he feel it too?
“Here,” I grunt, pulling him towards me as my fangs descend. He leans with one hand on the reading desk as I slice through his pale skin and suck deeply. Isher has turned away, his body language stiff and uncomfortable. Tough shit; he’s the new guy around here and Pavel has a duty to me — until, if, he ever asks to be released. Which he won’t, I acknowledge to myself. Isher can suck it up. I stifle a snigger at my mental wording. There’s a nightmare thought; a Fae turned vampire. Although I don’t think that would be possible. God’s breath, perhaps it’s just as well Charley isn’t going to set up home with a Fae bride. Their offspring could potentially ignite a species war simply by existing.
I berate myself for going off on a tangent when I should be paying attention to my shadow’s body signals. Pavel is wide-eyed, his pupils black holes. Fuck knows what kind of pleasure he derives from being at my bidding, he’s never explained it adequately, but he definitely gets high on my bite. I close the puncture wounds I made with a deliberate lick, then press a kiss to the already-healing skin.
“You’re too good to me, moje zlato,” I murmur as I give him space to right his shirt sleeve and catch his breath.
He rolls his eyes at my no doubt appalling attempt to produce an endearment in his native language, but his heart rate quickens as he affords me a fleeting smile. “I live to serve you, Dalziel.” It’s rare that he uses my name this way in front of others, but I like it. I step away and say at my usual volume, “I’ll leave you to your books. I’m going for a turn about the grounds. Isher.”
Isher’s farewell is more robust now he’s presumably stopped freaking out over seeing a glimpse of my fangs at work or whatever was bothering him. If he’s intending to stay here much longer, he’s going to have to work on his attitude. I’m a damned vampire and I will not apologise for my nature. Or for having a shadow.
I take out my possibly-unfair thoughts about Isher and the Fae in general — with the exception of one very dear friend — by ripping up some weeds that have escaped the gardener’s notice. Dumping them in a corner, I head to the garage to wipe my hands before firing off an email instructing Eleanor to speak to the grounds staff tomorrow during daylight hours. Humans are excellent gardeners, but they do slack off on occasion. They won’t do it twice if they want me to continue paying them.
Hector finds me behind the wheel of my ancient Riley Monaco. I can see the fractional tensing of his wide shoulders as he contemplates whether I’m going to get him to move everything out of the way so I can take her for a spin.
“It’s all right. I’m just having a quiet moment of reflection,” I tell him. “Besides, she’d probably resist all my attempts to get her going if I were to attempt to crank her up right now.”
“I resent that, sire. All your vehicles are roadworthy all of the time, unless I inform you otherwise.” His face splits into a cheeky grin. Hector is polite, usually, but he’s never been cowed by my status as chief nibby of the fanged brigade or whatever inane title the supernaturals have come up with today. Or, I ask myself, should I be blaming the secretive bunch of weirdos that hang out in the hole-in-the-wall pub near the Necropolis in Glasgow and speak of me in hushed whispers? Eh, probably a bit from column A, a bit from B.
I beckon Hector to join me in the understated luxury of the front seat. “Did Charley bother you at all earlier?”
“God, no. He’s a nice kid. Got a gob on ’im like the entrance to the Rotherhithe tunnel, but I like ’im. Smart lad, too. Asks lots of intelligent questions.”
“May I remind you, you’re speaking about my son,” I drawl. Hector laughs. I nudge his side with my elbow. He gives me a long look.
“Got some energy you need to run off?”
It’s on my lips to deny this, but instead I sigh, then nod. “Give me ten minutes to change and I’ll meet you back here?” I could do with a run. Hector is good company. And it might stop me thinking too much about the fact that my current paramour chose a ten-day holiday in Fuerteventura over an all-expenses paid trip to Finland with me.
Ugh, no wonder I needed to invent a treasure hunt for my offspring.