The Elf And Shoemaker Page 5

  I don't either and I hate it. "That's the way the magick works. I'm so, so sorry. But this is real." He captured the man's face between his palms and pressed an urgent but tender to kiss to his lips.

  "I want to believe you." Logan's fingertips traced over Hallan's face as if trying to memorize it by sheer touch alone.

  "You can believe me."

  "But..." Logan hesitated.

  "But what?" he encouraged.

  "You can't be real, can you?" His fingers crept back up to Hallan's ears, following the curves up to the pointed tips. "You...this...what you are, if you're what I think, you don't exist."

  "You don't have elves in your world?" He'd already surmised as much after Logan's reaction to his ears earlier, and after watching Logan for so long and only hearing and seeing references to humans.

  "No. Nowhere except in fantasy and fairy tales. And...and maybe dreams. Really, really good dreams."

  A half-smile curved Hallan's mouth, though inside his heart was aching. "In my world, we don't see many humans, though they do exist. What can I do to make myself, make this, more real for you?"

  Logan was quiet. He turned his face into Hallan's shoulder, and Hallan hated it when he felt a slow, shuddering sob shake his lover's back.

  "Logan..." He hurt all over for the man, knowing how troubled he already was because of his store, and hating that he might have added to his pain. He wanted to help, wanted to fix things, but didn't know how to fix this. "Please...tell me what I can do."

  "Tell me you'll come back." It was a choked whisper.

  "I will."

  "When?" Logan lifted his head.

  "I don't know for sure. Where I come from things are complicated. But I'll return as soon as I'm able."

  "You promise?"

  "I promise." He kissed him, sealing the vow, though he feared he had no business making such a promise. Things in Lamerion were getting worse, the king more and more unpredictable, and his own actions more closely watched. But he also knew he'd do whatever it took to get back here to be with Logan again.

  "I'm holding you to that," Logan said in a soft tone. "And if you don't come I'll...I'll kick your ass or something."

  That drew a real smile from Hallan and a quiet laugh in spite of his fears for the future. "I'm here because you brought me here, because you asked. At this point I think you might have to kick my ass to keep me away."

  "I brought you here? How?" He could tell from Logan's voice that he was getting sleepy, legitimately sleepy this time, not drunken sleepy. His difficult day was catching up to him.

  "You asked for help. Remember?"

  "I...did. But I didn't know..."

  "That you'd get me?"

  "Do I have you?"

  "I'll tell you a secret," Hallan whispered against his temple. "You already had me. You've had me for a long time."

  "Like...a guardian angel?" Logan murmured. His body was relaxed and heavy.

  "Something like that. You need to sleep now, Logan. I've kept you up later than I should have."

  "'Kay...I'll try. Hallan?"

  "Hmm?"

  "R'member...you promised..."

  Hallan tightened his arms around him, hoping with all his heart it was a promise he could keep.

  A minute later a faint, wheezing snore escaped Logan.

  Hallan held him for a while longer to be sure he was truly asleep. Then he crept from the bed and padded through the dark room and into the hallway. He found a basin with running water in the bathing room, along with a stack of cloths on a shelf. He wet one of the smaller soft squares of fabric in surprisingly warm water and returned to the bedroom where he cleaned the remains of their lovemaking from Logan's skin so he could sleep more comfortably. Then Hallan straightened the room, wiped himself clean as well, donned his clothing, and tucked the covers up around Logan.

  He could hardly bear the thought of leaving, but knew the time had come. "Sleep well." Then he brushed a final kiss against Logan's lips. "I love you, Logan," he whispered.

  He stood and left the room without looking back.

  Downstairs, urgency to return to Lamerion hit him with a vengeance. He'd been gone hours on this side, and feared what might have happened in his absence. He quickly cleaned up, put away all Logan's supplies, and in a flash of inspiration, took a moment to leave something else for his lover.

  Then, knowing he'd stalled as long as he could, he faced the mirror. He closed his eyes and said a silent goodbye to the man sleeping upstairs. This would always be the hard part, he knew. The leaving.

  It would also be the most dangerous part. Because he'd always be at his most vulnerable when he moved through the glass back to his world. From his side, he could see into Logan's world and know what to expect. But the reverse wasn't true. From here he could see nothing but a mirror filled with his image--tall, lean, the fine features and long gold hair of his mother's line. If someone ever found him out, or if they happened to be in his chambers when he returned, he'd have no way of knowing until it was too late.

  Yet even knowing the risks involved, he couldn't imagine not coming back. Not now. For Logan, he'd take whatever risks were necessary.

  Drawing in a breath of calm, Hallan took one last look around the room, then stepped into the mirror.

  The same sensation as before tugged at his insides, a bit stronger than before, almost as if it were insistently pulling him back to where he was supposed to be, the world of his birth.

  Back in his own rooms, he sighed in relief when all was quiet. The mirror shifted to its regular size, and faded back into invisibility.

  It didn't appear anyone had been here. He'd locked the door, so no one should have entered, but locked doors meant nothing in this place if certain people wanted in. A fact that ate at him more and more with each passing day. He hadn't wanted to leave his home and move into the fortress that the high court of Anseal had become. He'd held out and fought it as long as he could. But in the end he'd been given no choice. He'd been escorted here three years ago when the king declared he wanted all his "advisors" close to him so they'd be more readily available when he needed them. The truth was, though, the king believed an uprising was being formed and he didn't know who he could trust so he wanted all those with questionable ties to be behind his walls where he could better watch them.

  Hallan's questionable "tie" had been his mother, who'd been the potion master to the king through the reign of the peaceful King Danedil "The Gentle" and his immediate successor, his younger son, King Aestorian. But Aestorian's reign had been short, less than a century, brought to its end, many believed, by his jealous older brother who'd always felt he'd been cheated of his right to rule when Danedil, on his deathbed from an injury caused in a hunting accident, defied tradition and passed the crown to the younger son rather than the elder.

  Since Aestorian's death one-hundred-fifty years ago, the elder brother, Zolodan had reigned. Upon taking the throne, the first thing Zolodan had done was make sure there were no potential loose ends left from the days of the old king and his brother. He'd banished his brother's daughter from Lamerion for all eternity and imprisoned his brother's son. Hallan's mother and many others who'd been loyal to the old king and Aestorian had been exiled to the distant reaches of the land never to return, and any who attempted to seek them out were threatened with death.

  Hallan hadn't been home when his mother was exiled...he'd been traveling for many years, honing his skills, studying with herbalists, and mastering the magick of the rare craft with which he'd been born. When he'd heard the news and returned, it had been too late, his mother was already gone, lost to him. But she'd left him a letter saying goodbye in the secret place between the boughs of the silver hallandiell tree, in the meadow where she'd lived and he'd grown up.

  The moment Zolodan discovered he was home, he'd appointed Hallan as the new potion master to the king, ordering him to fill the position that had been his mother's.

  King Zolodan had always been high-strung and prone to
anger and suspicion, but the past few years his paranoia had escalated to immense proportions, brought about by Aestorian's son escaping from prison and the army's inability to find him. The king was certain his nephew, who'd managed to stay in hiding since his escape three years ago, had been stirring a plot against him. And because Hallan's mother had connections to the old king and Aestorian, then in the king's eyes, Hallan was a suspect in that plot.

  The constant intrigue sickened Hallan. Though his mother had worked at the high court all his life, she'd made a point to shelter him from it, to give him the opportunity to grow up unburdened, playing and roaming in the woods and meadows near their home rather than trained and formally prepared for what would, one day, become his legacy. Though she'd often been taken to task for her decisions, she'd held her ground and tolerated no interference from those at court, teaching him the art and magick of potions with natural lessons of her choosing, encouraging him to travel as he got older, study broadly, and use the enormity and diversity of the world around him to channel the magick that made those with his and his mother's rare abilities special.

  Because of the freedom she'd allowed him to experience, Hallan had never wanted to be a part of the high court, would gladly have lived his long life caring for those beings who truly needed and appreciated his gift. But fate had not seen fit to allow that. Instead, he was now trapped in a life that held no joy for him. There seemed to be no escape from this existence. Except for Logan. His tenuous connection to Logan through the glass had been a true gift these past two years. At times, he was certain it was all that had kept him sane. And now, that connection had become even more precious.

  With a resigned sigh, Hallan studied the chamber and found that all was as he'd left it. The fireproof glove he'd tossed aside earlier lay on the floor next to his workbench, near the remaining shards of the stone mortar and pestle he'd dropped and broken. He crossed to the mess, swept it up, and laid the glove in its proper place on the shelf. Back to normal.

  A painful wave of loneliness swept over him and he shook his head. Back to normal. Could anything here ever be considered normal again?

  He closed his eyes and imagined himself back in Logan's room, savoring every inch of his beautiful body, touching and tasting until Logan was hoarse from begging for more. But in this fantasy, Logan writhed on the bed in the moonlight, his body aglow with lust, and his eyes fixed on Hallan, watching him, really seeing him, as Hallan brought him to climax. And then they both fell asleep wrapped together, their bodies entwined, with no rules and no fears.

  "If only..." Hallan whispered.

  His eyes fluttered open to find not the warmth of the man he loved, but the stone walls of his chamber in the first dull light of dawn. The desolate gray seeped through the tall windows, stealing the heat until Hallan felt cold inside. But it also served as a reminder of how long he'd been gone. He'd left here in the afternoon. As he'd suspected, time had passed much more slowly in Logan's world. The three or four hours he'd spent with Logan had been the equivalent of thirteen or fourteen here.

  The knowledge shook him because he realized just how lucky he'd been that no one seemed to have come looking for him. His absence wouldn't have stirred much notice at the evening meal last night because Hallan often took a tray in his rooms, hating to spend more time than he had to with the contentious members of the court. The serving staff who delivered the tray, however, must have thought it odd for him not to answer his door and accept the food. He just hoped none had reported his strange behavior to the king.

  Before he returned to see Logan the next time he'd have to be sure to offer a reason for his absence...say he was going to harvest herbs and plants for his work, perhaps. Though the king would insist on sending an escort with him, so maybe that wasn't the best plan.

  But then a sick thought occurred to him...

  What if I can't go back? What if the glass only worked the one time? What if Logan's plea for help was a onetime deal?

  No. No!

  He couldn't think that. Couldn't believe it. Wouldn't.

  All you know about it is from the old tales. Those books are ancient, and the ones who wrote them are long gone. How do you know what's true and what isn't?

  Fear knotted his stomach. And though he knew he shouldn't risk it so soon, he had to know. He crossed to the wall where the mirror was hidden and murmured the words to make it appear. For a long moment everything in the glass was fuzzy, and then Logan's kitchen came back into view. Hallan wanted to sigh in relief, but didn't because he'd been able to see Logan's world in the mirror for more than two years. It hadn't been until last night he'd been able to pass through the glass.

  With unsteady hands, Hallan reached for the frame. Let it still work.

  But as his fingers closed around the edges, a hard pounding rattled the heavy wooden door of his chambers. "Open the door!" a demanding voice called from beyond it.

  Shaken by the interruption, Hallan released the frame and hid the mirror again. Why now? I need to know...

  It was too late, though. There was nothing he could do to assure himself right now.

  Looking around one final time to be sure everything was in place, and with his heart drumming, though he cloaked it under the stoic mask he made a point of wearing when dealing with the king and his minions, he forced himself to make the walk in a calm manner to the door, where the pounding had begun again.

  He unlocked it and let it swing open.

  "The king summons you, Potion Master. He doesn't like to be kept waiting."

  Hallan raised an eyebrow, drawing on the innate aloofness most elves possessed and Hallan typically found tiresome except when it served his purpose. "Nor does he, apparently, have any consideration for those who aid him when he sends his soldiers to bang on doors at dawn," Hallan said in an icy tone to the two emotionless nadar--northern mountain elves whose loyalties had been bought by the king. "May I remind you again that I am not one of your prisoners and will not be shouted at or ordered about?"

  "The king has summoned you," the spokesman said again, resting a hand on the sword at his belt. "Now."

  "Well, by all means, let's go see what the king wants." Hallan stepped regally through the doorway, but as he turned to pull the heavy door closed, he gave one last glance at the stone wall where the mirror rested. The knot in his stomach lay heavy. Please let me be able to get back.

  It was going to be an excruciatingly long day.

  Chapter 4

  * * *

  The sound of the trash truck down in the alley, banging containers and crunching waste in the compactor, startled Logan awake.

  The room was dark with only a thin film of light seeping from beneath the floor-length drapes. He sagged back into the bed and rubbed his eyes, wondering what time it was. His digital clock had died before the holidays and he hadn't scrounged up the money to get a new one yet. He had a pretty decent internal clock, though, so he almost always woke up early. The trash truck waking him, though? That was unusual.

  Oh, crap!

  The waste service usually came around nine or nine-thirty on Thursday mornings. Which meant he'd overslept!

  He sat up and threw off the covers...

  And froze.

  He was nude. He'd slept nude. Something he hadn't done this whole winter because the house was always too damned cold. Why had he done that?

  As the icy air raced over his bare skin, memories of the night before came trickling back in foggy bits and pieces.

  He'd gotten drunk. He remembered that clearly--God that had been dumb. Just the thought of the red wine he'd drunk made him feel slightly queasy. He'd...he'd started to make a new oil blend. He remembered getting out his supplies. And then... And then he didn't know what had happened. He didn't remember coming to bed at all.

  Dreamlike impressions of kissing, and of a deep voice with a faint foreign lilt to it whispering to him rippled through his thoughts.

  What the hell?

  And then came flashes of that same v
oice groaning his name in raw passion, and of himself crying a name as well, something unusual, something that was on the tip of his tongue but he couldn't recall it, and he wanted to recall it. It seemed terribly important he do so. But before he could ponder it further, a new memory assailed him...of a warm, hard body sliding over him, into him, stroking him to a fevered pitch, then plunging with him to a powerful climax that rocked through his senses.

  Shock and blazing heat churned in Logan's veins in spite of the cold room. Oh, my God... what had happened last night? More importantly, who had been with?

  But then a nagging thought crept into his mind and took root. How could I have been with anyone? It's impossible. He'd been locked in the house. Alone. And drunk. Very drunk. So drunk he didn't remember getting to bed.

  "So what's more likely?" he asked aloud, suddenly feeling stupid. "A mind blowing encounter with a mysterious hunky stranger who got into the house... how? Or an amazing drunken wet dream?"

  There was only one logical answer.

  He dropped his head into his hands and scrubbed his palms over his eyes, hating the disappointment that crushed him.

  When he closed his eyes, he could feel it again. Could hear that seductive voice. Could smell the comforting scent of a clean masculine essence that he couldn't name but seemed so familiar. He could feel the broad, long-fingered hands twining in his hair, caressing his abdomen, stroking his cock, and...oh, geez...delving into his hot, dark places. Had he actually sobbed for more? His ass clenched just thinking about it, empty and aching and wanting it again.

  And yet it had never happened. He'd been here alone all night, for heaven sakes. Had to have been. It couldn't have happened anywhere outside a dream. There was no other way to explain it.

  But I so wish it had been real. God, I want it to be real.

  An odd sense of déjà vu passed over Logan. Like he'd had that same thought before. Had maybe even said it aloud before.

  "I'm going crazy," he moaned. "What am I doing? It's late. I have to go open the store."