Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

CAELAN

I t 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.

A minotaur raises his hand, staring at me pointedly, the gold hoop in his nose catching the candlelight as his nostrils flare.

Right. Back to work.

I paste on my best subservient smile, which, considering the way the minotaur glares at me, must not be very convincing.

"What's it that's brought you to Wild Oak Woods?" the minotaur asks in a northern accent so thick I hardly understand him.

I pour a fresh jet of boiling water into their empty teapot, carefully doling out the specific ratio of chamomile and mint this table ordered.

The minotaur stamps a hoof impatiently, making the floorboards shake.

I give him a mild look, and when I let a bit of fang slip, he quells slightly.

"A change in my fate, I suppose," I finally answer. "Funny thing, that."

He makes a noncommittal grunt, and I glide away from the table to check on the sylphs, who titter and order more of the enchanted pastries we stock from The Pixie's Perch.

And run into Lila's hard gaze. She was brave enough to give me her name the day she hired me.

Brave, or foolish… though I'm leaning towards courage when it comes to her.

"Don't scare the minotaurs," she says, arching an eyebrow. "We don't need a stampede."

I snort. "Me, scaring them? They're twice my size."

It's not quite true, considering my fae blood gives me muscle and height, but she can't deny that they are larger than me.

She doesn't, either, instead giving me a curious, scrutinizing look that makes me feel small.

"She doesn't want you to upset anyone." Druze, her husband, a green-skinned dryad, wraps an arm around her and kisses the top of her head.

An ache goes through me, and I rub at my chest.

"Have I upset anyone?" I ask smoothly, attempting to recover. "Have there been complaints? Tell me how to improve."

I'm perturbed. Annoyance ripples along my skin.

I try to make myself small for these villagers, try to fold into myself, hide what I am, keep them comfortable and collect all the tiny clues of themselves they're only too happy to shed like breadcrumbs.

And this is how they thank me?

With coy accusations of making their patrons uncomfortable?

"I'm only too happy to hear your advice," I force out.

Lila gives me a look that tells me she's not buying any of my brand of bullshit today. I glance behind me at the minotaurs' table. Maybe she's more in the mood for their brand of it.

"Caelan," she says, flicking her long white hair over one shoulder. "Do you need the afternoon off? You seem more out of sorts—" She cuts off her words, but I hear what she was going to say.

Than usual.

More out of sorts than usual.

An Unseelie fae from the Dark Queen's court, forced to wait hand and foot on these overland peasants? A certain blonde witch haunting my sleep and my waking thoughts?

My nostrils flare.

Of fucking course I'm out of sorts.

"Why don't you take the afternoon off?" Lila suggests.

Druze grunts in agreement, his green eyes pinning me in place. "We are more than caught up on the work we hired you for," he adds.

I gesture around to the half-empty café. "And miss all the excitement?"

"Go. Have you even explored the town yet?" Lila makes a shooing motion with her hands. "I know it's hard to start over," she glances up at Druze, the concern around her eyes softening when she smiles at him. "It's hard," she continues. "But it can be so worth it, if you let yourself have a chance to grow."

She turns her attention back to me, and the worry and happiness on her face are what shock me the most.

Because it's real, and it's for me.

"Take a cup of lavender grey," she says, forcing a fresh tumbler into my hands. "Go walk, and see what there is to see. Come back tomorrow morning and we can talk about whatever it is that's bothering you, okay?"

I start to dip into an unctuous bow, as I might have in front of Her Dark Majesty, but pull up short because Lila might be my boss—for the moment—but she's not my queen.

I don't have a queen anymore.

I'm an Unseelie fae, out of the Underhill, and completely, utterly rudderless.

When I make myself smile back at her, I'm suddenly too tired to flash any fang, and I take the tea and her advice to get to know my new home a little better.

Starting with the witch I can't get out of my head.