Page 4

Chapter II

The King and his Mage

“To Fenrir!”

From the cacophony of two dozen voices, the salute rose.

“To Fenrir, our king!”

“Not a king.” Beside Orpheus, Fenrir laughed, then pushed a hand through his hair. Tension coiled under his surface, smothered by the raucous crowing of his entire extended family gathered for one final meal.

Of the hundreds of unruly banquets Orpheus had attended at the Gilded Palace, dinner at the Rawkner household put them all to shame.

“What are ya if not a king?” The dismissal came from one of Fenrir’s brothers, the casual wave of his hand forcing a grin onto Fenrir’s face.

“Actually,” Fenrir said over the drone of voices, “I haven't decided on my title yet.”

This inspired a booming laugh, like the joke was that Fenrir had a say in the first place. Orpheus buried the urge to sweep to his feet and drag Fenrir downstairs to their stable sanctuary and shoved his shoulder into Fenrir’s arm instead.

“Well, you’ll always be my king,” a sister announced, completely oblivious, her wine glass lifting to meet a dozen more.

“Here, here!” the whole of Fenrir’s family echoed.

Against him, Fenrir’s breath was shallow. His body stiff. His laugh too loud.

Orpheus sank into his side and clutched his wine glass close.

Voices rose and fell over the clatter of cutlery against ceramic, threads of conversation weaving together, broken fragments Orpheus failed to follow through the clamor of too many people talking over each other. Baskets of warm bread exchanged hands while children squealed around the small card table Fenrir’s mother had set up for them. A loose pack of three ran circles around the dining room table, tiny footfalls beating a headache into Orpheus’ already throbbing head while Roland’s dagger-like glare broke through the tangle of arms reaching for ever manner of dish.

Orpheus pretended he didn’t notice, sipping a bright, young wine from an old, chipped glass and hoping he appeared unaffected.

One more day to go and then you’ll have plenty of real problems to deal with, he reminded himself when a particular boisterous guffaw punched into him like a fist. He flinched, fumbling his glass, almost spilling wine all over his lap but recovering quickly enough he didn’t think anyone had seen. He brought the glass to his mouth and took a large gulp, glancing at the faces across from him and feigning boredom.

“Is it helping?” whispered low in his ear. Orpheus nearly choked on his wine when, beneath the table, Fenrir’s hand slid over his knee and edged up thigh. “Getting drunk?”

“I’m not drunk,” Orpheus hissed, slamming his glass down, wine splashing over the edge to drench his hand.

Maybe it was his frayed nerves. Maybe it was the unrelenting noise or the never-ending squeal of children’s laughter. Or maybe it was the reality he was facing. The changes looming over both him and Fenrir that should be a boon rather than another curse.

Whatever it was, from the shallow recesses of his consciousness, instinct bit.

Orpheus brought his fingers together and snapped.

Sound cracked, cutting through the chatter with the razor’s edge of a freshly sharpened blade. Fenrir froze alongside him; both their gazes locked on his hand like Netherflame actually had erupted from it.

It hadn’t. Of course, it fucking hadn’t.

“Fifi—”

“I’m fine,” he hissed, grabbing a cloth napkin and furiously wiping at his hand. “Merely a habit.”

A snap of his fingers. A familiar stab of bone-deep ice. In another life Netherflame would have turned the wine to mist. Now, Orpheus scrubbed his skin pink and tried to forget what had just happened.

“It hasn’t been that long,” Fenrir prodded gently, voice soft, wound raw.

Orpheus chewed his lip and scrubbed. “It’s certainly been long enough.”

The hand on his thigh flexed, Fenrir’s grip a compulsive clutch. Like he could reach in and wrest away the ache inside Orpheus. It was the exact kind of foolish brazenness he expected from Fenrir, and at any other time he’d welcome it. But tonight? His wounds were already too open, aggravated by Fenrir’s complete inability to have an honest conversation about what in all hells was about to happen to them both.