The End of a Pact

Claude

It felt like nothing at all happened for weeks and weeks, and then everything happened all at once.

The most important things, though, were figuring out the ritual—at least I was pretty certain we’d figured it out—and Sonny telling me he wouldn’t be around for it.

Which, okay, it was unfair of me to be disappointed by that. This was always going to be a temporary situation. He’d already stayed way beyond what we initially agreed to. And he had so much happening in his life, I couldn’t expect him to give it all up to hang out with me. Especially now we knew it was the lightning.

I just needed to practise on my own. I could do it. I knew I could do it. It would take some discipline and repetition, but hopefully I’d be able to do it in time for the solstice.

Sonny poked at his waffles. We were at our usual table, though breakfast time had ended a while ago. It was early afternoon when we woke, in only our underwear, and yep, with some serious boners again. I got rid of mine myself in the shower. I felt like we’d moved past that whole “don’t wank because Jenny will see” pact, and since Jenny saw everything anyway, what was the point? If I was going to live here, I guessed I’d have to get used to the idea. There was no way I could go years without a release. Of course, every stroke had been entirely fuelled by the memories of my courtyard encounter with Sonny.

“Don’t watch, Jenny,” I’d said out loud, passing my hand along my length and staggering against the shower tiles with the instant and overwhelming relief of being able to touch myself again.

“Whatever,” Jenny had replied. “You act like I want to watch.”

I knew it did, but I chose not to remark on it. I did, however, wonder if Sonny had done the same as I had. I’d seen his tent this morning. Pretty difficult to hide when he’d worn only those skin-tight burgundy boxers of his.

Indeed, when Sonny joined me in the dining room, I spared the front of his shorts a quick glance. Everything flat and normal. He gave me a one-shouldered shrug, which translated to yes, I had a wank, but I don’t care. I can’t go another two weeks like last time.

I nodded. We were on the same page when it came to matters of what Jenny saw and how much of a fuck we gave anymore.

“When will you head back to Remy?” I asked, attempting to school my features into something resembling nonchalance, despite my heart doing parkour in my chest.

Sonny moved the food about on his plate. Cut off a piece of waffle. “On the twentieth of June.”

This was when I should have said something in response. Even a “sure” to let him know I’d heard.

“Uh, if that’s okay,” he added, obviously mistaking my silence for something else. “Feel free to kick me out sooner, though I want to make doubly sure we know what the ritual is before I leave.”

“Yes, that’s... great.” And it was great, but now I was more worried about the twentieth’s arrival. About giving him up. He wasn’t even mine. We didn’t have a relationship, just one frantic frot in a dusty old courtyard and a glorious kiss.

Spending more time with him was not the best idea. I felt like I was teetering on the edge of genuine emotions. Knowing my luck, this last month with him would be the month that pushed me over that edge and I’d end up falling head over heels.

That’d be the last thing I fucking needed.

“If I’m cramping your space, please don’t hesitate to tell me. I know it can’t be fun sharing a bed with a six-foot-seven fae like me.”

“I will. Let you know, that is.” Though I couldn’t imagine when that day would come. Also, he and I obviously had very different ideas of fun. “I wanted to ask you something, actually.”

Sonny took a bite of waffle. He made an I’m listening kind of “Hmm?”

“There’s about a month until the solstice and...” I puffed out a breath, wiped my sweaty hands on my napkin. “I’ve been thinking—a lot—about what happened in the courtyard.”

Sonny maintained eye contact, but his cheeks grew pink, his pupils dilated. Or at least, I think they did. He swallowed.

“I was simply wondering if maybe...” Gods, why was it so difficult to communicate this? We were both adults, with the very adult ability to separate our adult emotions from our adult needs. “Just for the time you’re here, of course, but I was wondering if you might be open to... more encounters of a similar nature?”

He twitched, snorted, almost choked on his waffle. I tried not to let myself feel disappointed, at least until he’d given me a definitive no.

Besides, doing anything more with him would surely lead me down a dangerous path. One I wasn’t sure I’d find my way back from. Sonny saying no would be the best outcome. That way I could say I tried, but I wouldn’t end up caring for another person, only to have them walk out of my life again.

“You mean like a fling?” he said, after he slapped himself in the centre of the chest to ensure his airways were clear.

A fling. Could I have a fling with Sonny?

Could I survive one?

I’d had flings before, sure, but this felt different for some reason. It was Sonny. The man was...

Not perfect by any means. He stole from me and still hadn’t returned my possessions. He stole from Stinkhorn Manor. Oggy or Willow confessed they’d had to order a new crate of crystal salt and pepper cruets because of Sonny’s light fingers. And I’d watched his twitchy little hands every time we visited another room on our tour of the property. Pretty sure he’d pinched a butt plug from the butt-plug room and a shiny tassel from the butt-plug tassels and tails room, too.

He wore the worst clothing known to faekind. Today he was in a T-shirt that said Be Gay, Grow Thyme, and denim shorts that were so frayed at the knee it looked like fringing. His trainers were scruffy and grotty. One rubber sole had been duct-taped to the fabric to stop it from running away. His hands were always dirty—mud underneath his nails, which were still painted with chipped forest-green varnish, his fingers covered in calluses and healed cuts.

And he talked. A lot. He disrupted my peace like nobody had ever done before.

But he also wasn’t not perfect. And in all honesty, I couldn’t care less about the thievery. I’d even begun to feel as though his fashion choices were rather... endearing.

He was kind, empathetic, passionate. He cared about the planet. He collected his pee in a fucking big hay pee receptacle because he didn’t want to waste the nutrients. It was disgusting, but that was how much he cared.

Sure he was vociferous, and past Claude had hated him for it. But hadn’t I been encouraging his chatter every night? Hadn’t I asked him to tell me about growing sprouts and about mycelium and soil health and his scientific papers?

I was an enabler.

I wouldn’t survive a fling with him. But at the same time, how could I possibly spend the next month sleeping beside him, taking breakfast and dinner together every day, working intimately with him on the ritual, and not want more?

“I guess a fling. Uh, if you’re open to that, of course.”

Sonny swallowed slowly. Took his time to answer. “Yeah, I’m...” He cleared his throat again. “Very open to that.”

I hid my relieved and anxious smile behind my palm.

“Just so you’re aware, I’m vers. You know, if you have a preference?” he said to his almost empty plate, looking up only when he’d finished his question.

Damn. Suddenly, other parts of my body became highly invested in the conversation.

“I’m vers, too,” I said. “But yeah, I do have a preference.”

Sonny raised his brows. Pursed his lips together.

I forced myself to stop giggling. Dammit, dammit, why was it so much easier to be confident in the bedroom than at the dining table? I glanced over to the corner to John, tapping away on his laptop. “I like to top.”

“Okay, phew,” Sonny said. He laughed once. “Because I’ve seen what you’re packing, and let me tell you, it’s been ages since I had a decent railing.”

Sonny palmed his face as my hand smashed down onto the table, sending my teaspoon catapulting out of my latte.

“I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to say that... it just sort of slipped out.” He picked up my spoon from the floor and wiped it clean on a cloth napkin. “Of course, we don’t have to do that.” His face was scarlet. He wouldn’t make eye contact with me. “We can take things at a pace you’re comfortable with. I—fuck, I don’t expect anything. I was just letting you know. And now I’m going to go back to my rooms to curl up into a ball and pray for nature to absorb my body into the ground.” He laughed, but he got to his feet.

“Don’t be embarrassed. I’m glad you said it.” I couldn’t meet his eye, but I was beginning to enjoy the random, unfiltered thoughts Sonny sometimes blurted out.

“It’s fine. I have so many one-to-ones this afternoon with students, I should pull my finger out. What are your plans for today?”

I looked through the big glass windows into the B&B’s gardens and the grey skies beyond that. “Well, I had planned to practise lightning magic, but I think I’ll stay indoors. I might look through your notes again. Practice the teacup glamour. It’s not exactly lightning, but if it helps to hone my skills...”

I also needed to have a good chat with Jenny. Because I was sure the house could tell me a lot more about this ritual than it was letting on. If it definitely, categorically, one hundred percent was the lightning, I didn’t need to try out anything else. And if Jenny would just confirm, Sonny wouldn’t need to hang around Stinkhorn Manor until next month.

Though perhaps I would keep that part to myself, simply to get a few more moments with him.

Was that unethical?

Probably.

But after the twentieth, would I ever see him again?

I should make the most of it—him, us, our time together.

Unless, of course, I fucked up the ritual and killed the house, and sent two beautiful sentry fae into the ether, and destroyed the ancient God of the Underworld, and handed Hell to Mr Dupont on a silver platter, and had to move back to Remy with my tail between my legs.

No, failing wasn’t an option.

But I didn’t want to waste these last few weeks with him.

Sonny bid me good luck with my training, told me he’d be in the next room if I needed him for anything, and then I watched him leave the guest house. Watched that perfect backside of his, and his pale, hairy calves retreating.

Despite needing to have a conversation with Jenny, I stayed at the table for another thirty minutes, just to get a little more respite from the house’s constant commentary.

“This came for you,” squeaked one of the sentry fae. I think it was Oggy. The only way I semi-knew, was because Oggy’s voice was an octave or two higher than Willow’s. She removed my empty breakfast plate and in its place she dropped a large, thick envelope.

The paper was the colour of clotted cream and was the luxury, heavyweight type: the kind one used when the sender wanted the recipient to know they meant business. The date mark was from last week, the day after the solicitor’s and estate agent’s visit. Sure enough, when I flipped the envelope over, the return address stamp read: Greene Property Management Solutions.

I slipped Sonny’s unused knife into the edge and sliced the envelope open. Inside it, and on equally expensive looking paper, was a contract. Unsigned, obviously... but still. An accompanying letter was enclosed.

Dear Lord Stinkhorn,

Thank you for showing myself and Mr Cope around your property yesterday. The following proposal may feel like it is coming a little left of field, but having considered our options greatly, we believe this is the only viable solution.

Stinkhorn Manor is built from non-standard materials and does not meet construction regulations. Rental restrictions mean we cannot let this property out in its current state. The house would require serious reconstruction to meet these requirements before we could open the doors to tenants. It is simply not profitable to make these changes, and it is only a matter of time before authorities learn of these failures and take action.

After much discourse, Greene’s have concluded the best course of action for this partnership would be to level the current building and construct a series of interconnecting apartment blocks. There would be seven in total, each containing eighteen luxury two-, three-, and four-bed flats.

I have enclosed details of a recent, very similar project, plus the projected profits for the next five years. Due to the demand for accommodation of this type in your area, we would be looking to start the demolition work on 21st June.

Please sign the enclosed contract and return to me at your earliest convenience.

If you have any questions, do not hesitate to call my secretary.

Cam Greene

CEO Greene Property Management

That man had some gall. Flatten a house I’d spent over a month trying to save. Bulldoze a sentient being. Sure, that sentient being was a fucking nightmare at times, but it still had feelings. It still provided and cared for its occupants.

There was no way.

Even if I wanted to sell, I wouldn’t sell to that guy. I didn’t need the money that badly.

“It’s not about the money,” I whispered aloud, just to make sure I wasn’t lying to myself.

John paused his typing but didn’t turn his head in my direction.

I stood, thanked Oggy for the breakfast-brunch-lunch, balled up the letter and threw it into the wastepaper bin. Jenny didn’t need to know how effective its tactics had been at dissuading Mr Greene.

“Hey!” John shouted, halting me in my tracks.

“Yes?” I said, trying not to roll my eyes at the abruptness to his tone.

I expected him to ask me about the letter. He didn’t. “I have something for you.” He pushed a small octagonal brass object towards the end of his table.

“What is it?”

“It’s a compass is what it is.”

I picked it up. It fit perfectly into the curve of my palm. “Doesn’t look like a compass.” It was heavy—heavier than anything that size had the right to be—and rather plain in terms of decorative features. There were no N S E W markers, but there was a needle which lazily swayed this way and that around what would typically be considered “north.” On the side of the device was a bumpy dial. I clicked it, and a word came up in a small pane. Happy.

I continued to spin the dial. More words appeared and disappeared... Disappointed. Hellbent on revenge. Eager. Peculiar. Horny. Lazy.

“It’s a Gut Compass,” John said, not looking up from his laptop, but obviously sensing my confusion. “You’ve heard the phrase follow your gut, right?”

“Well, yeah . . .”

“ Well, yeah,” he repeated in a mocking tone. “This is that. This is what the saying comes from. Those are extraordinarily rare. You’re welcome, by the way.” He still didn’t stop his tippy-tapping.

“Uh, thank you? So, I turn the dial until I find the... emotion I’m feeling and then, what, follow the arrow?”

“Not just a pretty face, are you?” He spared me one glance before returning to his laptop and resuming his typing. “And that was when the handsome warlock delivered the ancient, cursed Gut Compass to the unsuspecting idiot fae.”

“It’s cursed?” I placed it back on the table. “No, thank you.”

“Of course it’s not cursed. But I can’t very well write ‘the Gut Compass that was acquired for two silvers fifty at a car-boot sale in Agaricus’ in my memoir now, can I? Nobody would read that shit.” John picked up the compass and pressed it into my hands again. “Give it a whirl now. What are you in the mood for? Adventure, retail therapy, rocking mindlessly in a corner until the emptiness consumes you?”

“Why the fuck... ?” I pulled the device close to my face and flicked the dial once, and my breath stilled.

Solve the rhizome ritual.

The needle spun and stopped. It pointed out the door.

“Uh, I should . . . follow that . . .”

John closed his fist around my shirt sleeve. “Use it tonight with your magpie friend. Don’t let him see that you have it, though, or you won’t have it for very long, if you catch my drift. Not with his sticky little fingers.”

I couldn’t figure out what to say, so I kept quiet.

“It has infinite emotions, so if you don’t see the right one, keep scrolling. On the back, you can set the radius of how far you’re willing to travel. It’s in kilometres, FYI. Don’t make the mistake I did and assume it’s in feet.” He turned back to his laptop. A dismissal.

“I’ll be off then,” I said, not bothering to spare him another glance before racing out the door and following the needle.

I followed it all the way out of the breakfast room, through the corridors. My heart raced, my palms grew sweaty. The adrenaline pumping through my system threatened to show me my eggs royale again.

Eventually, it took me up the spiral staircase that led to Sonny’s and my rooms. The needle pointed towards Sonny’s door. I paused, made to knock, but stopped myself because I heard chatter. I pushed the door open a crack and Sonny looked up from his laptop. His face split into a smile and he gave me a wave, immediately returning to his video call.

“But what measures will you take to ensure the results are not influenced by outside sources?” he said. I let the door close and quietly crossed the space to my room. The needle pointed behind me now.

“It’s leading me to Sonny, isn’t it? The answer to the rhizome ritual lies with Sonny?” I said to Jenny, flopping onto my couch.

“Look who finally came crawling back,” Jenny said. “Does it really take two hours to eat three plates of eggs?”

“No, it doesn’t. But I was chatting to John.” I was about to hold out the compass and ask Jenny more questions about it, but I felt the house stiffen. I wasn’t sure how, but it was like it took a sudden inhalation.

“First of all, I just want to say that it was all his idea. I only went along with it because nobody else was showing any interest in me, and he promised me that we’d be helping him. How was I supposed to know humans are allergic to funeral bell mushrooms?”

I paused, my hand closed around the compass. “Surely, the clue is in the name?” And then I shook my head because I did not want to get drawn into a conversation I certainly had no business knowing anything about. “John never mentioned funeral bell mushrooms. He actually gave me this.”

The compass somehow seemed heavier than it did a moment ago in the dining room. I turned it over to look at the distance dial and saw that a tiny key was needed to alter the radius. It was set at three kilometres. I had no desire to make it any wider. I wasn’t a huge fan of hiking, or even walking. It had been engraved with the initials G.M.V.

“Oh, I haven’t seen one of those in a while,” the house said. Maybe John had been telling the truth then. Maybe they were rare. What else had he been honest about?

“This ritual,” I began.

“Not this again,” whined Jenny.

I ignored its protests. “You can’t tell me what it is, but you can tell me what it’s not. Is that correct?”

“I’ve already said as much.”

“So, is it the lightning magic? I just want to be one hundred percent sure so that I can focus all my energy into practising the right thing.”

Jenny affected another yawn. “It might be.”

“But it’s not the blood offering?”

“No.”

“Nor the dead mouse?”

“No.”

“Nor the singing?”

“No, but I super enjoyed your rendition of ‘When You Are Mine.’ Not as much as Sonny did, though.”

I felt my face flame with heat. “Is it a spell?”

“Nope.”

“An incantation? A chant?”

“Nope, and nuh-uh.”

“Do I already know what it is?”

“Ooooh,” it said. “Curveball question, I like it. Um, yes. Yes, you do.”

“And I know how to do it?”

“You need to work on your aim, but yeah, I guess.”

“So, it is the lightning magic?” I said with an ah-ha! flair.

“Honestly, what part of ‘I can’t tell you’ do you not understand?”

That was all I needed to hear. It confirmed everything I needed to know. If the house said no to the singing but not to the lightning strike, it had to be it. Right?

I would keep practising, bettering my aim, as Jenny put it. But I wouldn’t tell Sonny. Not yet. And I knew that was awful of me, like terrible, but I just wanted to spend some time with him.

Before he left me as well.