Agents of Thunder

Sonny

I woke up hard. Of course I did. He was there, next to me, sharing the same duvet. His smell drifting over, invading all my senses. And also because lately I had just been in a “mood.” Like a super-horny mood. My dick throbbed, and my hand ached to cradle the head of my cock, rock the heel of my palm against it.

Would it really be so terrible if I excused myself to my room and sorted myself out? I couldn’t hear the house, or talk to it, but the house definitely saw me and would almost certainly grass on me to Claude again.

What if I didn’t use my hands? What if I lay here and cycled through my filthiest bank images until I came unassisted? Until I messed up Claude’s train-print pyjama pants?

But that felt wrong. A violation. Especially since I had no doubt all of those images would feature the shroom fae currently snoring softly beside me.

Think of Mash, I told myself. And Jasper with his tiny denim thong, and that creepy old human guy with the notepad who sneaks up behind me and makes my guts flip as though I’d missed a step. Or think of unrecyclable plastic packaging, slug pellets, out-of-season veg shipped halfway across the Eight and a Half Kingdoms.

Ooh, that was working. It was deflating a little.

Beside me, Claude groaned, and my cock reacted like a modelling balloon being blown up. I let my head fall against the pillow.

“Give me a break,” I mouthed wordlessly to no one. I turned to Claude. “Hey, good morning.”

Claude rolled onto his back and seemed at once to remember where he was, and that I was next to him. “Sonny! Good morning!” he said, as though he was trying to get the words out as quickly as possible. His eyes were wide, they flicked down his body, and then back to me. The silver freckles on his cheeks and nose sparkled like glitter. He was blushing.

I followed the line of his sight, and my gaze snagged on something around the middle of the duvet. Something massive. My brain tumbled over itself trying to solve all the clues. At first I assumed the shape near Claude’s waist must have been one of his arms. But no, both his arms were accounted for outside of the bedcovers.

Holy heck.

Ho. Lee. Heck.

“I’ve, um—” He laughed. “I’ve got a bit of a situation.” He didn’t look at me.

“Same, though,” I replied, finally letting a hand brush over my erection, like I was making sure it was still there. It was. I forced myself to stop groping it in Claude’s presence, even though he determinedly would not look at me.

Maybe it was the way the duvet fabric had folded over itself, but I had the sudden urge to poke Claude’s third arm. To see if the tenting would collapse, or if that whole thing— the whole thing —was solid.

Claude caught me staring and flipped onto his side. I averted my gaze. Didn’t know what to say, so I just made a “hnaaah” sort of sound and rolled in the other direction, falling out of the bed and landing on my feet.

“I’m gonna go and get changed. I’ll see you in a bit, and then we can head downstairs for breakfast,” I spewed, my voice about thirty octaves higher than it normally was.

“Yep, same,” Claude squeaked in reply.

By the time I’d dressed—in my black jeans and mustard-yellow hoodie with the bee identification guide—my raging erection had calmed itself somewhat. Claude opened the door to his rooms at the same time as I did. He’d donned a brown woollen suit with a matching waistcoat and cream shirt. It fit him seamlessly, classically. No disconcertingly large lumps at the front of his trousers, leading me to wonder if my memory was overcompensating.

“Did you... ?” His gaze flicked down to the crotch of my jeans and then back to my eyes.

“No,” I replied. “Did you?”

He shook his head. “I feel like at some point... the need to do... that might become too much.”

“Yes, I agree.” And that was all that was said about morning boners and morning-boner-related issues.

We headed down to breakfast. I had waffles and fruit and Claude had three portions of eggs royale again, and then Claude popped his hat on, and we made our way to the ley lines. He’d asked Willow and Oggy to pack us a picnic, as he figured we’d be there for the best part of the day.

“And here it is,” he announced when we’d reached the very centre of a particularly uninspiring field. The grass here was clumpy, threaded with silverweed and clover and occasionally daisies and dandelions. He stood over a flat, square rock, about twenty by thirty centimetres in size. I attempted to lift the rock with my foot to see what was underneath, but it wouldn’t budge. It seemed to be rooted deep into the soil.

“It’s . . . uh . . .” I began.

“Underwhelming?” he offered.

“Honestly? Yeah, I thought it’d be like some clearing in a magical mushroom forest. With, I dunno, forest creatures and will-o’-the-wisps and what not.”

Claude rolled out a purple and orange checked blanket next to the big flat rock. He held out a hand, inviting me to sit. “Well, Jenny told me there were mushroom folk that lived... around here somewhere. It called them Earth Bells. But”—he raised his voice when he clocked the excitement on my face—“it said they’re mute, and cannot tell us anything ritual related or otherwise.”

I sat. Crossed my legs underneath me. Claude watched my movements and sat next to me.

I opened my notepad, wrote Earth Bells in the corner of the first page for later research, and began scanning my notes. “Right. Here’s what we already understand about the ritual. It has to be performed by you, a direct descendant of Mycelium the first, and only you. It can be performed solo, so we know it’s not something that requires two people, but your father often brought other people with him.”

“Women,” Claude corrected. “Women, not people. From the information I have gathered, my father brought only the women he was romantically involved with. More often than not, though, he came alone.”

I jotted that down. It might have relevance later. Who could tell?

“But we know that the number of people doesn’t affect the ritual,” I said, trying to steer my mind clear of the whole “romantically involved” comment. Something in the back of my subconscious switched a tiny light bulb on. “We also know it’s not dependent on seasonal forces, like weather, since it was performed routinely during both summer and winter. It could be a weather spell, and I want to discuss that in a bit, but for now I think we’ll cross off a couple of obvious things. Have you tried touching it?”

He looked at me from the side of his eyes.

“Well, have you?”

Claude said nothing. He reached across and touched the rock with a fingertip. Then he splayed both palms against it. We both held our breaths, waiting for... anything.

“What does it feel like?” I asked.

“Kind of warm. Like, warmer than a stone should be. Even one that’s been basking in the sun all morning. And it’s humming a little. Feel.”

I placed my hand next to Claude’s. Tried not to breathe in the scent of him. “It’s cool. Cold even. And definitely not humming.” But at least that confirmed what we already knew. It had to be Claude. “Is it saying anything or just vibrating?”

Claude leaned closer. “I don’t think it’s—oh, hang on.” He got closer still. “It’s...” He placed his ear flat against the stone. “It’s speaking. Or singing... Like a chant, over and over. Can you hear that?”

I shook my head. I only heard the wind whistling through the distant trees, birds singing, insects chirruping.

“Amor sui vitas salvat—” Abruptly, he pushed himself to his knees and rolled his eyes to the heavens. “How wonderful! I can hear you all the way out here.”

Jenny. The house.

“It’s laughing,” Claude said. He sighed and rejoined me on the blanket.

I took a small plastic tub out of my backpack. “I thought we’d start by trying an offering?” I phrased it like a question because I really wasn’t sure.

“What is it?” Claude peeled open the lid at the corner and peered inside. He recoiled instantly.

“What mushrooms love to eat. Substrate. A hearty mix of decaying leaf mould, high-nutrient organic compost, and a lovely dead mouse.”

Claude opened the lid all the way and gagged. “Where did you get this from?”

“I asked Oggy and Willow, and they came back with this. Pretty sure this is my compost from back in Remy, but it’s impossible to be certain. And the dead mouse?” I shrugged. “Maybe try sprinkling some onto the stone?”

He shut the lid and pushed the tub towards me.

I pushed it back. “It has to be you.”

He motioned to tip the contents of the tub onto the stone.

“Uh, I’d assume for the ritual to be effective, you’d have to touch the offerings with your bare skin.”

“No,” he whimpered. Gagged. Then shut his eyes and dug his fingers into the tub. He closed his hands around some of the leaf mould, soil, and the mouse’s hind, gagged again, and practically threw the offerings onto the slab.

And we both watched for some kind of reaction. Some sign we’d uncovered the ritual first time around.

Nothing.

“Jenny, is that it?” Claude asked... paused. “It’s laughing again, so no.”

I scooped the matter off the tablet and tucked it into a nearby clump of weeds. A gift to nature and whichever small scavenger stumbled upon it later.

“Not gonna lie, kinda glad I don’t have to fondle a dead animal every six months.”

Secretly, I agreed, though it would have been nice to have figured out the ritual so quickly.

“So, the other thing we should try is a blood offering. Like the mouse, but with your blood.” I handed Claude a small flip knife from my backpack. The one I usually used to split plant stems, but for this occasion I’d disinfected the blade with surgical alcohol.

“I cut myself?” Claude squeaked, each syllable of his sentence higher than the last.

“Just a prick. A single drop of blood, that’s all.”

“No. I can’t. I... You do it.” He thrust the knife into my palm and held out his own.

I cradled the back of his hand in mine. The skin-on-skin contact zinged up my arm, made my heart thrum in the base of my throat, made my sweat glands go into hyperdrive. “I’ll try to make this as pain free as possible.”

Claude screwed up his face, and I nicked the point of the blade against the pad of his ring finger.

“Oh, that wasn’t too bad,” he said, prying his eyes open as I squeezed the end of his finger, eking out a drop of blood and letting it fall into the centre of the stone tablet.

The tablet appeared to absorb the blood. Sucked it in like a sponge. The little circle of red disappeared entirely. Not even a wet patch remained.

“Did that work?!” Claude squeezed out even more blood. “Does that mean it worked?”

Once again, the stone absorbed the droplets.

“Jenny?!”

Claude paused while he listened to the house’s response.

“It says we’re getting warmer,” he said.

Hadn’t Jenny already said no to the hotter-colder guide? This house and its inconsistencies were starting to annoy me a little.

“But the blood isn’t the ritual?”

“I guess not.” He puffed out a huge lungful of air.

“This is good, though,” I said. Claude looked at me like I’d lost my senses. I never expected the blood to work; I was merely crossing another thing off the list as a formality. The next words I tried to phrase in the politest way possible. “If Jenny could tell us when we’re getting hotter or colder, that would... be so incredibly helpful.”

“Can you do that?” he said . . . paused . . . turned to me. “It’ll try.”

“Okay.” That might work. We’d simply have to take whatever the house said with a pinch of salt. I still wasn’t one hundred percent sure we could trust it, but I also didn’t have Claude’s ability to communicate with Jenny. I’d never understand its idiosyncrasies the way he already seemed to. “This is a great start so far.”

Claude stared at me whilst sucking his wound, clearly not as enthused as I was about everything. I skipped a few pages ahead in my notepad.

“There are a few folktales, stories, beliefs, whatever you want to call them, that transcend shroom lore and have made their way into other cultures over centuries, millennia even. Like human folklore, other types of fae, shifters, warlocks, et cetera, and I reckon that’s why we can talk about them.”

“Okay?” Claude said, taking his pricked finger out of his mouth.

“There’s one. If any of these folk-inspired things are gonna work, it’s this.”

Claude licked his lips. “Okay,” he breathed again, the word barely a whisper. “What is it?”

“Agents of thunder.”

“Huh?”

“It’s long since been believed that thunder and lightning and rainstorms cause mushrooms to... sprout. Apparently, where you see a flush of mushrooms in the earth, it’s because lightning has struck that spot. Scientifically, there’s no evidence to support this, but the belief is so ubiquitous, and spans so many cultures, species, religions, that it’s worth looking into further.”

“What are you suggesting?” Claude’s features somehow seemed shadowed.

“Weather glamour,” I said. “Magic a bolt of lightning directly onto the stone.” A simple enough piece of magic. A party trick to most fae.

Claude blew out a breath, removed his hat, ran a hand over his curls, and got to his feet. “I can’t... no... I’m not.”

I stood too, so Claude had to look up to see my face.

“I’m shit at glamour. Shit. I know every fae is supposed to have this innate ability to do weather magic, but I... I’ve never even successfully pulled off a storm in a teacup.”

I faltered. Almost tripped. Almost blurted out the first thing that came to mind. Managed to reel it in.

This was not ideal. Storm in a teacup was basic glamour all fae learned in preschool. You start with a cup full of tea leaves and you make them swirl around into a teeny little tornado.

That Claude had never done this before was kind of disappointing, if I was being honest. But no big deal. We could overcome this.

“So, maybe we practise?” I hoped Claude did not think I was being condescending.

“Practise? Summoning a storm?” Oh, shit. I’d offended him.

“We could start with a teacup?”

“I’m not a toddler.” Really, really offended him. “Ugh, I knew it was going to be something like this. Well, we’re screwed then. Sorry, Jenny, I’ve failed you all.” Claude threw himself back onto the blanket, his head tilted up to the morning sun.

I knelt next to him, placed a hand on his shoulder. “I’m not even sure the lightning thing is the thing, but I feel that of all the possibilities, it’s the most likely. And you’re not failing anyone unless you don’t try.”

Claude stared at my hand, followed the line of my arm up, up, up to my face. “I’m five hundred and ten years old. I can’t tell you how many teachers I’ve had over my life who’ve given up on me. It’s fucking child’s magic and I can’t do it.” And then he folded in on himself, bringing his knees up to his chest and using them as a pillow for his forehead.

I waited. Gave him the time he needed. He flinched. Flinched again. Shook his head.

“Jenny,” I said. “Please, give him some space.”

Claude lifted his head from his knees, looked at me, and raised one eyebrow. He could have been saying, “How did you know?” Or he could have been saying, “Thank you . ” After what seemed like five minutes, he let out a long, dragging sigh. “The least I can do is try. Can you teach me?”

“Of course.” I chose not to mention the teacup would be the best place for a beginner to start. I didn’t want to upset him again. “We’ll try to conjure a small rainstorm. You’ll not get much projection with the rainstorm, but it’s safer than attempting lightning. Do you want me to talk you through it first, or... as we go?”

“Let’s just get started. As we go.”

“When you’re ready, you can stand up. I think this’ll be easier on our feet.”

Claude nodded and pushed himself up.

“Hold your hands out like this. Palms up.” I placed my own hands in front of me, slightly wider than my shoulders. Claude copied, and I cupped the underside of his hands with my own. His skin was soft and warm and a little hairy, and I pretended I didn’t notice the sharp zing of electricity that shot through my entire body.

He sucked in a breath, made the cutest, “Oh.”

“Shut your eyes,” I said, my words sounding altogether far too breathy.

Claude obeyed without hesitation.

I cleared my throat. “It comes from within.” My voice was still too gravelled, too sensual. I cleared my throat again. “You don’t think it. You feel it. Like it starts in your chest and your spine and your guts. The humidity and the pressure and the rumbling. Feel, don’t think. Empty your thoughts. And feel.”

A few minutes of silence passed.

“Yeah, um, how long before I feel anything?” Claude peeked one eye open.

“Honestly? It might take a while. We could be here all day.”

Or days.

He sighed a resigned sigh. “Well, I brought a picnic. And Jenny has magicked your pee-bale over there.” He cocked his head to the side, where indeed my pee-bale rested against the hedgerow.

“Wow, nice. Is that the same one from the allotment, or a new one?”

Claude paused. “The same one. Jenny said it will move the bale back and forth between here and the allotment because...” He paused again. “It thinks it will take me more than a day to figure out lightning glamour.”

I didn’t let my features show how much I agreed with the house. We were in this for the long haul. I’d need to call Mash. Tell him I might be a little longer than I originally planned. Maybe send him some more lecture slides.

“And Jenny said it reads your soul and can see your desperate necessity to collect urine,” Claude said, as though sensing I’d confirm his fears if he left the silence stretch any further. It sounded accusatory, and he must have thought so too, because he added, “But personally, if it works for you, there’s nothing wrong with it.”

I didn’t mind. “It’s not really about collecting piss, that’s just part of it. It’s an obsession with improving soil health. And straw saturated in nutrients derived from urine is a beautifully organic way to gently feed the soil and the plants that grow from it.”

Claude removed his hat, passed his hand around the brim, and placed it back on his head. “So... I just piss on the hay?”

“It’s straw, not hay, but yes, essentially.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Hay is usually for animal feed. It contains seeds. Straw has no seeds, or a lot fewer seeds. Much less likely to germinate in the soil.”

He eyed the pee-bale suspiciously. “Well, the guest house isn’t that far from here if I need the loo.”

“Sure.” I shrugged, turned back to him and gave him a look that plainly suggested he keep practising.

He huffed. “Fine. Let’s do this.” He held out his hands again, and I cupped them.

An hour later, or perhaps it’d only been twenty minutes, Claude was yawning ... peeling open his eyes, tapping his foot, his shoulders sagging.

“Just show me what I need to do,” he demanded.

“I’m not sure how much you can learn from watching, but okay.” I planted my feet firmly onto the bouncy grass and held my arms out. “You’ll probably want to step out of the splash zone.”

“The splash zone?”

“It might rain. I mean, it will rain, but I’ll try to keep it just in front of us.”

Claude moved to spot about five paces behind me, looked down at the ground, up at the sky, and moved back another five paces.

“Perfect.”

It had been a long time since I had performed this kind of glamour.

A common rule in most fae households was no weather magic indoors. For much the same reason parents and caregivers wouldn’t allow cattle in their homes—it was messy, chaotic, things will get destroyed, and there will be shit everywhere.

Perhaps I had not even cast lightning glamour since that fateful incident three hundred years ago when I accidentally zapped my sister in the bathtub. From that moment on, we never took another bath together. Her eyebrows eventually grew back, she was fine.

So, I was a little out of practice, but I was determined to show Claude that the magic could be done.

“You need to imagine a storm building inside you. Like inside your veins. But not imagine, feel—ugh, I can’t really explain it. It just sort of... happens,” I said over my shoulder.

“That makes no sense,” he whined.

“I know,” I replied without looking at him. But there wasn’t a clearer way for me to define it. It was something that he simply had to feel, experience for himself. Much the same as he’d experience—

“It’s like an orgasm!” I blurted. I felt my face flame. “You, uh, need to be in the right mindset. You need to let the magic build. Imagine you are trying to...” Even though I was facing away from him, I closed my eyes, just to make it easier to say what I needed to without losing all my nerve. “Imagine you are trying to make yourself come unaided. No hands, or friction, just the building sensation.”

The fabric of Claude’s suit rustled. “Okay, oh boy... uh, does it feel good—um... similar?”

I pursed my lips together to stop my smile, and resisted the urge to turn around and see just how much Claude’s silver freckles were twinkling over his blush. “Well, it feels more like a sneeze than an orgasm, but it builds in every part of your body. Shall I show you?”

Claude said nothing, which I took to mean yes, and I began letting the power of the storm blossom. It purred in my thighs, my biceps and triceps, my gut. Lifted, made its way to my heart. Easier than I remembered it being. Moisture built in the air around me. The sunlight dimmed overhead. A charcoal-coloured cloud swirled into existence. Electricity crackled the edges of my consciousness, though I couldn’t tell if it was coming from inside or outside of me.

And then I felt myself rushing towards the peak as the tension building in my chest burst from my hands, shot straight into the sky in a single spear of lightning, and immediately down at my feet again, snapping against the stone tablet. But not damaging it.

I turned to look at Claude, feeling somewhat sated. Though not in a sexy way.

“That was incredible. Wow, okay, so—”

But whatever he was about to say or ask was cut off as the smoky-looking storm cloud I’d conjured only moments ago drifted over to him and proceeded to dump an ocean’s worth of rain water onto his head.