Zeph had run from the communal room—from Arwyn—from himself. Mostly he ran from the things he felt when he had kissed her. Things he had never felt before. A cacophony of zings and flutters, and the distinct feeling he was falling—heart in his throat and fear in his gut. He had broken the kiss, separating himself from the source of his discomfiture, and immediately swore upon doing so. His heart only pounded harder at the loss.

But he was bad for her. Surely, she knew that. And if he hadn’t left that room posthaste, he wasn’t certain he would be able to.

So he ran. With every slap of boot to stone, Zeph grunted another curse. He cursed his past, his choices, all the rotten, evil things he had ever done. It would have been easier to dissolve into shadows, but he wanted the pain of exertion, his muscles and lungs screaming in protest. He ran so fast and so hard, the need to cast up his accounts became central to his thoughts.

When he came to a set of double doors, he burst through them, shoving them closed with his body and letting the weight of his troubles sink him to the floor. He lifted his knees, rested his forearms on them, and let his head fall back on the unforgiving wood. He took deep, gulping breaths and closed his eyes. Arwyn’s face immediately came into sharp focus. Her pert nose, her brilliant, blue eyes, and pink, swollen lips that had been thoroughly kissed. He had thought he could run away from her, but here she was, buried in his thoughts and coursing through his veins.

“You realize you are in the chapel?” came a low, whispered voice.

Zeph’s eyes opened, surprised to find he was not alone. For the first time, he took in his surroundings. He stared down an aisle, bench seating on either side, that led to an altar. Candles were lit and incense burned, emitting a cloying aroma of woody, earthy smoke with an undertone of sweetness. It filled his head as if he had swum through thick plumes of it. A pleasant scent, he realized. Ethereal in a way. He closed his eyes again, trying to breathe as silently as possible because, for the first time since bursting through the doors, he felt a calming effect take hold.

He had almost forgotten someone else was there until he heard the rustling of a wool habit and near-quiet footsteps coming toward him. Zeph looked up. Xavier was observing him, a few steps away, with suspicious eyes. Zeph remained still, unthreatening.

The suspicion shifted to anger. “I followed you. Yesterday. You were heading into the forest and I wanted to know what you were doing. You didn’t walk far. You came to a tree and sat underneath it.” Xavier’s voice was low and bitter. Zeph had done nothing the day before, so he was unsure what the monk was going on about. Zeph’s lips remained closed nonetheless. He had earned Xavier’s scorn. “I thought about killing you.” Zeph lifted two dark brows at that. “You don’t think I can?” Xavier asked.

“No,” Zeph said. “I do not.” It wasn’t blustering that made him say it. It was honesty. Because he hoped Xavier wouldn’t attempt to try it. He didn’t want to fight him.

Xavier laughed. There was a bit of darkness to it, and Zeph found himself observing Xavier more closely. “I’m not daft. I know I can’t kill you. But that was the thing of it. If I attacked you, and you killed me fending me off, they would only know that you killed another monk. Would they believe you, do you think, if you told them the truth? That I attacked you first?”

Zeph was a master at hiding his thoughts, his feelings. His countenance remained neutral. But inside, he bristled like someone had just walked over his grave. “No,” he answered, “they would not believe me. Why didn’t you attack?”

The anger in Xavier’s eyes morphed into frustration. “I was about to. I gathered up the nerve to do it. I took the first step toward you and then a baby bird fell out of the tree and landed next to you. It startled us both, I think.”

Zeph’s mouth twitched at the corners. It had startled him. Who expected a baby bird to nearly land on one’s head?

“You looked up,” Xavier said. “Realized its mum had pushed it out of the nest. You looked back at the bird on the ground. I held my breath.”

“Why?” Zeph asked.

Xavier looked away, staring down the aisle to the altar. “Because I had been praying for a sign,” he said quietly. “Of your compassion—if you had any. Searly and Arwyn, they believe there’s something in you worth saving. Even your sister believes that. They didn’t see what I saw when you killed Thaddeus that day. I saw pure hate in your eyes. There was no compassion for Thaddeus when you spilled his blood.”

He couldn’t dispute Xavier’s words. He was right. He had been filled with hate. He did spill the blood of an innocent. He couldn’t undo it. Regret pressed upon him, heavy as a stone. Another cross he must bear. Another wrong he could never right.

He opened his mouth to say something, but anything he said at that moment would be futile.

“But then you picked up the bird, cradled it in your hand, talked to it, whispered to it, a few minutes later, you opened your hand and the bird flew away. It was practically dead before. You healed it. You healed one of God’s creatures—showed it compassion!” Xavier hissed. And then his face fell, contorting like he’d been struck by some elemental force. “Why couldn’t you have shown Thaddeus that compassion?”

Zeph swallowed thickly. Why couldn’t he indeed?

“Nothing to say?” Xavier croaked.

Zeph closed his eyes, hating who he was…is. “There is nothing I can say. Is there?” he whispered.

Xavier shook his head. “No, I suppose not.” He moved slowly, like a man who still grieved, before sitting on a wooden bench.

Long minutes went by with the two of them sitting in utter stillness, lost in their own thoughts. Zeph breathed in the incense, trying to capture that calm it had first brought him. It evaded him. Rightfully so.

“Why did you save the bird?”

The question echoed off the walls of the chapel. Or perhaps they were just echoing in Zeph’s head as he searched for an answer. He recalled the scene quite vividly in his mind’s eye. A tiny little thing, sickly. A castaway. A creature no one wanted. Perhaps he saw a little of himself in that bird. He had not really studied the why of it. Maybe to prove to those who had not wanted it that it could survive—thrive, even. So with a few whispered words he’d healed the bird and off it went. The feeling he had done something good for once was—even now, made his chest expand with something akin to joy.

“I don’t know,” Zeph answered. “It just felt like the right thing to do.”

Xavier studied Zeph for a long minute. And then he rose to his feet. “I’m going to bed.”

Zeph stood, removing himself from the large doors so Xavier could pass. As he was crossing the threshold, Zeph couldn’t help asking, “Why didn’t you attack me, fulfill your plan?”

Xavier looked him in the eye. Sadness and anger were still present in his gaze, but there was something else, too. Something that made all of Xavier’s sharp edges appear a bit softer. “I don’t know,” Xavier answered. “It just felt like the right thing to do.”

With that, Xavier walked out the door and Zeph released a long, slow breath.

Back in his chamber, Zeph lay prone on his bed, fighting sleep because sleep was not his friend. Sleep brought dreams and dreams quickly turned into night terrors. It had been this way for as long as he could remember. But even Zeph had to lie down occasionally. And yes, even sleep. Though, he fought it for as long as he could. He had tried the usual—sitting in the hard, unforgiving wooden chair in his tiny room until his backside was sore, then he stood and gazed out the window until his legs and back screamed in protest.

His eyelids started to droop, so he shifted on the bed that felt too small, forcing his eyes back open and picking a random spot on the ceiling to stare at. His eyelids pulled closed again and Zeph was unable to pry them open.

At first, Zeph was dreamless in his slumber, untroubled, his breaths slow and even. Tranquil. And then he was sitting in the communal room—Arwyn by the fire. Her lilac hair fell down her back, loose and wavy. He reached to touch it. It felt like silk in his hands. She turned to face him, her eyes sparkling like blue flames. She was so beautiful. Everything about her was beautiful to him. He knew he was dreaming, and he couldn’t be bothered to care.

“Arwyn,” he rasped.

“Kiss me,” she whispered.

He obliged, of course. Bending over her and taking ownership of her mouth, wanting to devour every part of her. She tasted so sweet, so achingly sweet. He deepened their kiss, pulling her closer, holding her tighter.

He released her mouth long enough to worship a path to her neck only to realize he was no longer holding Arwyn in his arms, but Lolith.

He jumped back, startled, angry, confused.

“Darling,” Lolith purred. “It’s me you want.” The scene changed and Zeph was on a large bed. No longer a dream, a memory, a nightmare he’d lived. Lolith had started her seduction when he was only fifteen summers. Anger rose above the confusion. Now. But when he was a boy, he had just been confused and unaware why someone as beautiful as Lolith was seeking him out, though he had never cared for her advances. Never wanted to be touched by anyone ever again. And here she was…touching him in ways that made his insides turn to rot.

“Don’t touch me,” Zeph hissed.

“You like it when I touch you,” Lolith said, running a long nail down his naked torso.

He tensed and gritted his teeth. “Stop.”

“I taught you pleasure, young Zeph. After years of abuse. I don’t hurt you. Do I?” She continued her gentle caresses and Zeph continued to hold the scream inside that threatened to rip its way out. He was powerless to stop her. Lolith was not only evil. She was a succubus and she had targeted Zeph for her own power and gains. In the end, it was her undoing, though not before she effectively ruined Zeph and everything he had ever hoped to be.

Her fingers were in his hair. She had always loved his hair. “Grow it longer,” she whispered, twisting a strand around her hand and tugging on it. Hard. “I love pulling on it when I make you scream my name.”

Zeph sat up with a gasp and rushed to the table in the corner that held a wash basin. He splashed water on his face several times, his hands shaking.

Lolith was dead. Lochlan had killed her. It was just a dream. She couldn’t hurt him anymore.

He told himself this several times, hoping it would take root and his anger would settle, and perhaps a small bit of him still held a remnant of fear, though he pushed that down. Way, way down. He lit a lantern and picked it up, thinking of taking a walk. With it still being dark out, he caught his reflection in the window. He edged closer, noticing not his face, only the white locks that flowed gracefully over each shoulder. Setting the lantern aside, he touched his hair, like he was seeing it for the first time, letting it fall through his fingers.

He looked at his reflection again and a decision was made. Conjuring a small blade, he began to slowly saw off the locks, white strands of silk falling at his feet.

Zeph stayed behind closed doors the next day, dozing off and on. When he wasn’t nodding off, he was gazing out the window, watching the world go by, hoping to catch a glance of Arwyn once…maybe twice. If he was lucky.

He was not.

By nightfall, Zeph was a restless thing, so he decided to leave the confines of his room. Hugging the thick stone wall of the uppermost floor of the monastery, he kept to the shadows, not wanting to be seen, as he made his way through the corridor, down a flight of stairs, to the second floor, pausing for a breath, listening for activity, before venturing down to the lower level and out the door. Once outside, he took in a lungful of air, pungent with the scent of tree sap and mossy earth, then he exhaled and sagged against the austere structure he was currently calling home.

Home?

No, the monastery was certainly not his home. So why was he still here? He shook his head. He was going quite mad from all the thinking he was doing. He was here because his sister and Arwyn were. He couldn’t leave them. He had a bad feeling in his gut. Something warning him to stay, telling him to protect them. His eyes searched the landscape, seeing little under the inky-night sky, but there was always a prickle of unease just underneath his skin.

What he wouldn’t give to know peace, to have just a moment’s worth of it. He took another deep breath—the kind where his nostrils flared, and his head fell back, his chest expanding. In Faery, before he’d been stolen from his family, the air always had a sweetness to it. Shoals of honeysuckle and bluebells and all the rich mosaic wildflowers perfumed the land. A tonic he longed to drink so he could taste its dewy flavor. After he’d been stolen, he’d only smelled decay, wet earth, sweat, and blood. Apart from Lolith. She smelled like an overripe fruit.

His stomach rolled at the thought and pushed her from his mind. Lolith was dead. She was dead, and he was alive, and she would never touch him again. As for the Unseelie, one day, he would get his revenge. He breathed in again. This time, he caught the faintest hint of wood smoke. Pushing off the wall, he followed the scent to the southern side of the monastery where the stables and workshops were located. Lochlan sat on a stump in front of a fire, alone.

Zeph had every intention of turning around and going whence he came, but before he knew it, he was within speaking distance. “Did you and my sister have a quarrel?” Zeph asked, curious why the half-breed was alone and outside at night.

Lochlan glanced in Zeph’s general direction, his eyes lifting no further than Zeph’s knees. The light of the fire cast dancing shadows all around—on his hair, face, and hands, where he was busy shaving the bark off a piece of wood with a knife. “No,” Lochlan answered.

“Mm, pity,” Zeph replied, taking a seat on a felled tree that had intentionally been placed there for seating. Yes, he was intentionally provoking, the corners of Zeph’s mouth slipping up a fraction. In truth, he perhaps liked the half-breed, though he would never admit it. “I was hoping she would have come to her senses by now.”

Lochlan did not rise to his bait, though he was almost certain he heard Lochlan grind his teeth. “She is with Arwyn. I am giving them time together.”

Just hearing Arwyn’s name caused Zeph to lose his grin. A bruised, achy feeling came over him. Something alive and feral crawled around inside his chest, tripping over his heart, making him catch his breath. He rubbed at his sternum, wondering when this feeling would ever subside.

“What did you do to her?” Lochlan asked, still paring down the piece of wood in his hand.

Zeph closed his eyes, feeling the heat of the fire, reminding him of the previous night—the kiss he had stolen from Arwyn. It had been…everything and not enough. How odd that he could feel this way after all that had happened to him—that he could want another’s touch. But he wanted hers, because her touch held him in place, somehow, when all he wanted to do was disappear.

“Saints in Heaven. You cut off your hair.”

Zeph looked up as if he wasn’t startled in the least, though inwardly he frowned, dismayed. He had been taken by surprise. He should have heard Favián approaching. His jaw flexed, then he gathered his wits and shrugged his shoulders. “You’re beginning to sound more and more like your uncle.”

Lochlan stopped his whittling, looking up for the first time. Favián stood at the mouth of the brew house, holding a pitcher in his hands, the two of them staring at Zeph with expectancy and surprise.

Again, Favián spoke. “Why did you cut it?”

Zeph waved his hand dismissively. He hadn’t thought how he would explain chopping off his locks, so used to being on his own, it never occurred to him that someone would speak on it.

“Thought I’d try something new,” Zeph quipped. “It was getting tedious.” It wasn’t a lie, precisely. It had gotten tedious at times and he had thought he’d try something new. It was all a play on words, really. His Seelie birth disallowed a true ability to lie. He could evade, distract, avoid, which was what he mostly did to avoid telling certain truths, although he could get away with white lies—lies that involved only his feelings, like telling Elin he was fine when he wasn’t, but nothing outside the scope of that.

“Tedious,” Favián repeated, rolling the word on his tongue, tasting it, his eyes narrowing, as though he was peeling back the layers of Zeph’s response.

The hairs on the back of Zeph’s neck stood on end. He didn’t like nor appreciate the scrutiny. “Perhaps I should have checked with you before making such a decision? I hadn’t realized you had become so attached to my hair. My apologies.”

Lochlan muffled a laugh under his breath and returned his attention back to shaving and paring the wood in his hand.

“Would you do that for me?” Favián asked with a lopsided grin. “Next time…” He winked. “I would like advance notice. I need to prepare myself for the shock.”

“You’ll be the first to know,” Zeph retorted. “Wouldn’t want you to get the vapors like some fair maiden and embarrass yourself.”

“You wouldn’t? See Lochlan, I knew he cared for me.” Zeph shot Favián a sardonic glance. Favián’s grin split into a blinding smile, and he held up the pitcher in his hands. “I found this in there.” He tilted his head at the brew house. “It’s not wine. And it’s not ale. But it smells potent. I say we drink it and come what may.”

Zeph raised one dark brow.

“What?” Favián said. “It’s not poison. And if anyone could use a drink, it’s you.”

“I’m fine,” Zeph said.

“And I’m the Virgin Mary.” Favián closed the distance between them and offered him the pitcher. “It’s just a drink, Zeph.”

 

All three of them were deep in their cups, completely fuddled. Even Lochlan, who had claimed alcohol wouldn’t affect him. “It never has,” he had said. That was before partaking in whatever this fruity-tasting brew was.

Favián hopped onto the felled tree Zeph was sitting on, and with arms extended out on either side for balance, he began to place one foot in front of the other to walk toward Zeph. “This is how I learned to fight,” Favián slurred. “Papá would have me balance on a log while teaching me how to dodge a fist. Then we moved on to weapons, dodging and weaving knives, daggers, poleaxes. I daresay I never learned a single maneuver on solid ground. ‘Balance and the smart application of force,’ he would say, ‘is how you defeat your opponent.’” Even inebriated, Favián was steady on his feet as he made his way across. “He wanted me to fight with him…in his army. I…did not.”

“What did you want?” Lochlan asked.

Favián shrugged, his eyes drifting to his feet. “I do not know. Just…not that. If I could be sure that I was to fight for a noble cause then I would be happy to do so, but not every war is noble or just.” He shrugged again. “If I fight, I fight for the causes I deem worthy of dying for.”

Zeph nodded, if only to himself, the tiniest bit of envy bubbling to the surface.

“Did your father accept your wishes?” Lochlan asked.

Favián lifted his head and stared off at nothing. “No. He did not understand.” He blinked and jumped off the log. “He stopped speaking to me.”

“Your father is Searly’s brother,” Lochlan stated rather than asked.

“Sí.”

Zeph watched Favián drink from the pitcher again, his back to them, then set it down clumsily on a warped stump.

“Does Searly know you and your father are not speaking?” Lochlan asked.

“No. I haven’t told him.” He turned to face them, looking Lochlan in the eye. “I ask you do not mention it to him. He has quite enough to worry about.”

Lochlan nodded once. “It is not my place.”

“Thank you.” Then Favián turned to Zeph. They met each other’s stare. “You will not mention it either.”

Zeph held Favián’s regard for several beats, not having a witty retort, his higher thinking muzzled. Finally, he settled with… “Do I owe you my loyalty?”

Lochlan shook his head, his jaw tightening. Then he picked up a rock and threw it sidearm, away from everyone, cursing under his breath. “Why?” he seethed. “Why does it have to be this way with you?”

Why indeed? Zeph regretted the words the moment they’d left his mouth. He was piling up regrets like stacks of stone, building a wall with them. How long would it be before his regrets came crashing down upon him and buried him? He stood, blood rushing to his head, and crossed over in an angry stride to where the pitcher was. He lifted it to his mouth, the cool liquid making his insides heat. He wasn’t going to tell Searly anything. So why couldn’t he just agree to stay quiet? Anger churned in his gut, but it was anger at himself—for being this way—for being this impossible monster who couldn’t have a normal conversation to save his life!

“I want to understand you, Zeph. Lord knows I try,” Lochlan said through gritted teeth. “But you make it damn hard to care.”

Zeph chuffed. “I don’t need you to care.” He took another drink.

“What do you need then?”

“Presently,” Zeph mumbled, feeling unlike himself, “for you to stop talking.” The alcohol was going to his head.

Ignoring him, Lochlan swayed as he pointed his finger at him. “Why did you cut off your hair? Truly.”

“I’m not talking about this,” Zeph hissed.

“You don’t have to carry it around with you, Zeph,” Lochlan said.

“What, pray tell, am I carrying?”

Lochlan looked at him with hard eyes. “You can tell me. You can talk to me.”

There was something in the way Lochlan was looking—those unnatural, odd eyes cutting through to him, penetrating Zeph’s cold, hard shell.

Zeph turned away, whispering, “No, I can’t.”

“You can. Why did you cut off your hair?”

“I wanted to.”

“Why?”

“Because it made me feel dirty. I didn’t want…” Zeph looked at Lochlan, the same way he had looked at him—hard and cutting. “Because of Lolith. I needed it gone. Now leave it be.”

Lochlan opened his mouth, wanting to speak, then clamped his mouth shut. He waited a minute and pointed toward the pitcher Zeph still held in his hands. “My turn.”

Zeph passed it over to him and took a seat. Favián kept quiet, though he watched and listened. The fire crackled, and crickets chirped. The wind played a melody with the leaves in the distance.

“I’m glad I killed her,” Lochlan said. “I’m glad she’s dead.” He took a drink and handed it back to Zeph, watching as Zeph drank the last of the dregs from the pitcher, then said softly, “She’ll never touch you again.”

The way Lochlan had said those words…like he knew…like he had sorted it out…something inside Zeph wanted to cry. Maybe it was the little boy he had lost, but he wanted to weep at those words. She’ll never touch you again. Zeph quickly got to his feet and blinked several times, holding the flood back. It was the alcohol. It was weakening his defenses. That was all.

That was all.

Lochlan sighed. “I wish you didn’t hate me, Zeph.”

“You hate me too.”

Lochlan shook his head. “I did. Not anymore.”

“You should.”

He shook his head again. “I’d rather understand you.”

Zeph was too tired to fight, to keep up the sarcasm he used for armor. He was weary down to his bones.

“Zeph—”

Zeph held up an open palm. “I don’t hate you. I hate myself.” He had failed everyone he had ever cared for and he would keep failing them, because the die had been cast, and when he had lived the life of a monster for so long, he didn’t know how to go back, or turn the page, and begin anew. He was stagnated, unable to advance in any direction.

He sighed and stared at the night sky, his head unclear, his thoughts hazy. Part of him wanted to scream. Part of him wanted to beg for forgiveness. Part of him wanted to give up caring altogether. Caring hurt. It hurt so damn bad. He fisted his hands on his head, expecting the familiar feel of long, silken locks between his fingers. He wanted to pull it at the roots, to feel the pain. He had to settle for the much shorter locks instead and pulled at those.

“Stop,” Lochlan said.

Zeph continued to pull at his hair, wishing the pain of it could overcome the pain in his heart.

“I said stop!” Lochlan said, coming toward Zeph.

“You logger-headed, fly-bitten, maggot pie!” Favián yelled.

Zeph stilled, lifting his head. Lochlan froze mid-step and glanced over his shoulder. “What did you say?”

He pointed a finger at Zeph, his face unreadable. “I called him a logger-headed, fly-bitten, maggot pie.” Then his mouth twitched. “He’s also an impertinent, toad-spotted dewberry. As well as a pribbling, dizzy-eyed pigeon egg.”

For a moment, Zeph just blinked at the human, taking him in, dissecting his words, as he let his hands slowly fall to his sides.

“Are you mad?” Lochlan asked, turning full body toward the young man, purposely putting himself between Favián and Zeph. “Are you trying to get killed?”

Favián leaned around Lochlan and winked, plainly in Zeph’s view. “You wanted him to stop pulling his hair. Now he has.” He shrugged. “Moreover, he drank the last of the brew. At the very least, he is a yeasty, sheep-biting, whey-face.”

Lochlan mumbled, “sheep-biting” while scrubbing his hands over his face.

Zeph’s mouth turned up at the corners. “Is that so?”

Favián smiled wide. “It is. Care to challenge me? Sheep-face.”

Zeph had to turn his head, a laugh bubbling to the surface. He cleared his throat and straightened his posture, sliding his eyes in Lochlan’s direction. He looked a bit pale and seemed to be calling up a prayer. Zeph caught Favián quelling a laugh of his own.

Zeph tipped his head to Favián. I see what you’re about. Well done, human. Favián responded in kind.

Playing along, Zeph pretended to be offended. “Sheep-face, is it?” He realized he was about to embark on infantile name-calling, only he had no idea how to respond.

Then he heard footsteps behind him and Searly calling out, “I can’t leave you three alone for even a minute.” His tone was teasing, his countenance warm and friendly. Placing his hand on Zeph’s shoulder, he said, “You can’t let my nephew get away with calling you sheep-face, can you?”

“No, I hadn’t planned on it,” Zeph said with a wry smile.

“Well, what is your retort?”

“Searly,” Lochlan warned.

“Oh, come now, Favián threw down the gauntlet. Zeph has to pick it up. Now, what is your retort?”

“Well,” Zeph said. “I can’t say I have engaged in childish name-calling before. What would you suggest?”

“Hmm,” Searly said, giving it thought. “Has logger-headed been tried?”

“Aye,” Lochlan answered, looking Heavenward. “And maggot pie, if memory serves.”

Searly chuckled. “I do love that boy,” Searly said quietly to Zeph. “Very well, here’s what you answer with.”

Searly whispered in Zeph’s ear. Zeph drew back and stared at the monk. “Truly?”

“Aye.”

Zeph blinked. “No one should ever doubt you two are related. Very well.” He turned his attention to Favián, who still wore a blinding smile. Zeph did his best to relax his face, erasing all signs of amusement, but it proved to be more difficult of a task than he’d expected. He had to bite the inside of his cheek. Taking a breath, he said, “You are a…gleeking, earth-vexing flap-dragon.”

Searly made a noise deep in the back of his throat and Zeph had to bite down on his lip to keep his stoic composure.

But Favián roared in laughter, doubling over. “Well done. Well done, indeed,” he wheezed. “Now, Lochlan, you give it a try.”

“Me? No. I’d rather not.”

“Oh, don’t be like that, milord. You don’t have to be so serious all the time,” said Searly.

“Apparently someone needs to be.”

“No, you are participating,” Searly insisted. “Now, insult us.”

“What?” Lochlan asked, blinking, hands on hips.

“Insult us.” He waved his hand impatiently. “We haven’t all night.”

“You are all mad,” Lochlan mumbled.

“You’ll need to do better than that,” Favián said.

“Very well,” Lochlan said, irritated. “All three of you are…are…” He paused, nostrils flaring. “Gor-bellied, spur-galled, apple-johns.”

Zeph, Favián, and Searly looked at Lochlan like he was half-witted. Lochlan squirmed under their scrutiny.

“Gor-bellied?” Zeph asked.

“Spur-galled?” questioned Favián.

“What in Heaven is an apple-john?” asked Searly.

“I don’t know!” Lochlan said, eyeing Zeph. “What the hell is a flap-dragon?”

Zeph raised his brows. “I was just repeating the lines Searly fed me.” He tilted his head to Searly. “What is a flap-dragon?”

“I made it up,” was Searly’s answer.

“Well, I made up apple-john!”

“You’re terrible at this, milord. You shouldn’t participate anymore.”

“I didn’t want to participate at all.”

“Now we know why,” Searly quipped.

Lochlan gripped the back of his neck, mumbling words to the sky. Then he lowered his head, a smile breaking across his face, even though he was fighting to contain it. “All three of you are Satan’s spawn.”

“Much better. Though lose the smile next time. It would be more effective without it,” Searly said, slapping his dearest friend on the back with all the love of a brother.

“I’ll work on it.”

Zeph planted himself on the felled tree once more while he watched the other three laugh and talk. Something settled within him, a calmness, like a morning after a stormy night. A sense of rest wrapped around him like a cloak. He found it easier to breathe now, so he did, and the smokiness of the fire seemed sharper and the air was crisper. More alive he felt than he had in quite some time.

Favián came over and sat down beside him. The two sat in companionable silence, listening to the soft cadence of nature and the lilting voices of Searly and Lochlan in their own conversation, and after a while had passed, Favián turned to Zeph and said, “I think I like you better this way…with your hair at chin level.”

Zeph turned a skeptical gaze to Favián. “And why would that be?”

Favián shrugged a careless shoulder. “I can’t say for sure why. But you seem more you, I suppose.”

“I don’t know what that means,” Zeph said with brows drawn tightly together.

“Before, with your long hair, you seemed so Faery Prince-like. Untouchable.” Favián grinned. “Very intimidating. Now you are more…how you say…approachable.” He shrugged again. “You seem more like the rest of us.”

Zeph cocked his head to the side, trying to read between Favián’s words. You seem more like the rest of us. He had never been included in anything before, not with good people like them. He turned his head and closed his eyes as a breeze swept across his face. “You hardly seemed intimidated by me,” he said, needing to respond in some way.

He heard the laughter in Favián’s tone. “I wasn’t. Well, I mostly wasn’t.”

Zeph couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped him.

“I think you are finding yourself, piece by piece,” Favián said. “One haircut, one drink, and…” He paused. “One kiss at a time.”

Zeph’s eyes popped open, his head whipping in Favián’s direction. “Pardon?”

“Relax. Arwyn told me you kissed her. She treats me like a brother, remember?”

That didn’t help Zeph relax. Not at all. “What did she…” Zeph closed his mouth. No, he would not ask the question. He didn’t want to know.

“Say?” Favián supplied. “That you kissed her and immediately ran off.” He shook his head. “I suppose I understand. But…”

“But?” Zeph prompted.

Favián met Zeph eye to eye. “It’s not what I would have done.”

Zeph narrowed his gaze, something fiery sweeping underneath his skin, warming his cheeks. “And what would you have done, pray tell?”

“I wouldn’t have run off. I would have stayed, and I would have—”

“Enough!” Zeph said, spitting out the word like it tasted sour. He ground his back teeth and tried not to think of Favián and Arwyn together, his hands bunching into fists.

Favián chuckled. “It would never be that way between Arwyn and myself. I care about her, which is why I brought it up, but she…” Favián’s voice trailed off. He brushed his hands over his breeches, pretending to clean them of dust.

“She…what?” Zeph asked, more calmly this time.

“She only wants you, Zeph. And you’re the idiot who kisses her and runs away.” He inhaled a tight, shallow breath. “Idiot,” he mumbled.

Zeph observed Favián a moment, then leaned forward, forearms on his thighs, and bowed his head. “I’m not good enough. She deserves better than me.”

“Mm, a woman like Arwyn doesn’t come along every day. Smart, beautiful, and a heart so big. She looks at you and she lights up like the damn sun. She wants you and you think you are doing her a favor by rejecting her? You think she doesn’t know her own heart? Her own mind? I find that insulting on her behalf.”

“That is not what I’m saying. That’s not what I mean.”

“It is. As well-intentioned as you are, it is.”

Zeph chewed on Favián’s words. Was that how she had taken his departure? That he had rejected her? That he didn’t want her? He suddenly felt very, very ill. “I need to fix this.”

“Sí, you do. If you want my advice, I recommend finding her and kissing her madly.” Favián was back to his broad smile, slapping Zeph on the back.

Yes! Zeph thought that was exactly the thing he needed to do. He stood rather quickly, and his head immediately began to spin, causing him to sway on his feet.

“Easy there, amigo. Perhaps not tonight, since you’ve been drinking.”

“Tomorrow,” Zeph said. “Tomorrow would be better.”

“Come,” Favián said, “I’ll walk with you to your chamber.”

Zeph stayed him with his hand. “No, I can make do on my own. You stay.”

“Are you sure?”

Zeph nodded once. “Yes.” He started to leave and then felt a thank you was in order. The words were there, on the tip of his tongue, but they weren’t the easiest words to let go of, so what he said was, “I won’t say anything to Searly.” He said this low so only Favián could hear.

“I know.”

“How do you—”

Favián cut him off. “Because friends know these things. You did not have to say it for me to know it.”

Zeph blinked, then blinked again. “Are we friends?”

“Well,” Favián said, altogether serious, “we certainly are not enemies.”

“Going to bed?” Searly called.

Zeph looked over his shoulder to where the other two men were sitting. “Yes, I am.”

“Sleep well, then,” Searly said.

“Good night,” said Lochlan.

Zeph’s eyes slid to each of them, and that lighter, fuller feeling inside his chest expanded. Something had happened this night, between the four of them. Not that he could define it. This was a wholly new experience for him. Or maybe… maybe it had already been defined. He just needed to accept it.

He tipped his head. “Good night.” And as he walked away, underneath his breath, he whispered, “Friends.”