Page 16 of How To Tame A Trickster Fae

“And you had many options in the Underhill?” he asks mildly.

No, I start to say, but clamp my lips shut. Options are not a thing among the Unseelie. Of course, it would seem that way, that we are allowed to do as we please.

But what we are truly allowed to do, the only thing we are supposed to do, is serve at the pleasure of the Dark Queen.

I don’t have an answer that I like, so I simply sit, and I rock, and I try to ignore the overpowering smell of Hash’s very ugly and thus nearly charming dog.

And I try to remember what it is, exactly, that is so off to me about this damned inn… other than the fact it is truly in need of a deep cleaning and a serious renovation.

Or maybe a large bonfire.

“Don’t even think about it,” Hash says sharply.

I glance up at the old man in surprise. But no, there’s no way he could know what I was thinking.

He sets the dog down, and I let out a breath as the ancient thing limps over to my chair, wagging it’s pitiful tail.

And promptly leap out of it as the dog lifts a leg and begins to piss all over it.

CHAPTER SIX

CAELAN

It takes a few days to convince the owner of Long Leaf Brews, a Star Isles clan elf with long white hair and the delicate features of her kind, to admit to me that she could use a hand.

My hands, to be exact.

Her dryad husband, a massive creature, likely from old Oak stock, watches me distrustingly as I work, inventorying the many loose-leaf tea blends they stock and making notes of what they could use more of and what might be best disposed of.

When clients come in, it’s all too easy to use my innate skills and magic to divine exactly what they need.

Still, despite the pleased smiles of each client and the faultless work I’ve done, the male dryad doesn’t trust me.

He’s smart not to, and I can’t say I blame him.

Unseelie fae have reputations to uphold, after all.

It’s not a challenging job, not by any means, but it does come with the bonus of eavesdropping on the peaceful droning conversations of the Long Leaf Brews patrons. Hooked on caffeine, or companionship, or some blend of the above, they flock to the Star Isle elf’s little café.

The trust they have in each other confounds me. Nowhere else in my life have I seen so many species sit in harmony, mingling without a care in the world.

This job, as errand boy and tea fetcher, though, it fits my purposes just fine.

They sit inside the shop with each other and speak freely, with none of the doublespeak I’m so used to. Dwarves gravitate towards a rocky corner with low-hanging ceilings and golden star-shaped lanterns, growing rowdy with every additional pot of strong black tea I bring them.

Sylphs and minotaurs sit together in another room, the former in a nearly claustrophobic green space covered in vining flowers and the latter at massive stone and pine tables lined with flickering candles.

The scent of spiced tea leaves and unlikely floral pairings permeates every conceivable nook and cranny of the place, sometimes competing with oddly opening flowers along the living walls and the scents of the customers themselves.

And yet, they do nothing to mask the smell of her, the little gold-working Wren a few blocks over.

I wake up in the small spare room we’re renting in town soaked in sweat, somehow hot and cold all at once, dreams of the witch consuming me.

As a child, I heard stories of things like this: of males enchanted by witches or, worse, humans above the Underhill, of finding a mate who would never understand them. Like everyone else, I assumed they were cautionary tales.

I would never be so stupid as to find a mate match with anyone other than a fae.

Absently, I scratch at the thick tattoos around my arm and tug at my sleeve there.

---