The Cobbler's Soleless Son Page 3

  Renart put on his best clothes, though he knew they weren't terribly fancy—loose white shirt, violet vest, plain tan culottes and a matching jabot—and fastened his anklets. They didn't quite match and made his bare knees stand out. But still, he thought as he considered himself in front of the mirror, he didn't look half bad. His floppy brown hair was neatly washed and brushed, his dusky skin clean. The time spent on the road would doubtlessly ruin some of the tidiness of his appearance, but there was no point in second-guessing himself now.

  He set out, climbing the simple low gate leading out of the city rather than going through the bother of finding someone to unlock it, and walked off down the gravel road. It was immediately uncomfortable, especially compared to the cobbled streets of the city. Sharp stones dug in when he walked on the street itself, but edged grass at the roadside caught at his feet when he tried to walk there instead. Not as bad as it would have been if he hadn't been practicing, he told himself firmly, and continued doggedly onward.

  Still, although he was right about how the exercise and heat would make him sweat, he hadn't really anticipated how dirty his feet would get on such a long walk. Dust and mud and dirt clung to them, not something he could just scrape off at the door, not with them bare. It stuck between his toes, caked on and built up as he kept walking. By the time he arrived two hours later, the sun setting and casting his shadow long behind him, he was more than half-tempted to turn right back around. He doubted he'd make a good impression, looking like he meant to bring half the road in with him.

  But a bad impression was, he thought, still better than no impression at all. Stealing himself, Renart went up to the door and knocked.

  It was opened by a demonic footman, an incubus with long, molten gold hair. Heavy pale lashes half-covered green eyes with light flecks that matched his hair. His horns curved backward like a ram's, wrapping around his head and keeping his hair off his face. Their eyes met, and Renart's heart thudded hard as the footman's aura of desire wrapped around him.

  "My goodness," the footman said, in a soft voice. "What have we here?"

  Renart drew a sharp breath to center himself, almost undone by the honey scent of the demon in the doorway. With his grip on it a little too tight, he thrust the invitation forward. "I've been invited to this event," he said, mouth dry. "Is there a problem?"

  The footman took the invitation, plucking it from Renart's hands with fingers that seemed to have too many joints. He looked it over in a perfunctory way, not even truly bothering to read it, and handed it back. "No problem at all, sir," he said, and curled his lips in a smile. "Except the state of your feet. You'll get mud all over our floors."

  "Floors can be cleaned," Renart said, breathless but trying to keep his voice firm. He wasn't sure how hard he'd need to argue to get in, not with the invitation to back him up, but he was determined not to budge.

  To his surprise, the footman laughed, shaking his head. "They can, and so can feet," he said, and, unexpectedly, knelt in front of Renart. He ran his fingers down the bare skin of Renart's leg from knee to where the anklets began, then lifted one of Renart's feet, unbalancing him. Suddenly worried he'd fall, Renart braced himself on the wall. "It wouldn't do to show your feet this way in front of the prince."

  The touch of those long, unnatural fingers was, Renart was sure, deliberately arousing. Sometimes cubants were so unfair. He swallowed hard. "Wouldn't it?" he managed.

  "Of course," the footman said. He ran a fingertip over the anklet he was holding. "But my word, you've made something interesting of this embarrassment."

  Renart closed his eyes and drew a slow breath. He had to focus. "Then, am I permitted to wash my feet?"

  The footman released his leg. "Yes," he said, smiling warmly as he rose again. "Come with me." He took one of Renart's hands, disallowing any argument, then led Renart around the corner of the building.

  A large and elaborate garden maze spread out in that direction, and Renart couldn't quite stop his sudden fear. His mind began to run a mile a minute. Perhaps he was being brought out there to be lost in it, left behind so that even his invitation had no value. He'd let himself be taken away from the doorway even when he'd reminded himself to stay firm—he'd put himself at risk. The invitation would hypothetically keep him safe inside the party as a fellow guest, but outside it…

  To his relief, the footman released him before they made it to the maze's entrance. He stopped in the small alcove just before the maze proper and began to draw water from a pump.

  "Sit," the footman ordered gently. Renart sat on the stone bench, watching the line of the footman's back, the fall of his hair, as he filled a bucket. His admiration didn't go unnoticed, he was sure, and when the footman returned, his horizontally-slitted pupils flicked down the length of Renart's body toward his anklets.

  "Take those off," the footman said with a purr, as if he meant more than the anklets. "You wouldn't like them to get wet, I'm sure."

  It was impossible to resist. Renart licked his dry lips, leaning down obligingly. His forehead almost brushed the kneeling footman's, their faces close. He breathed in the footman's exhaled breath, a sweet flavor, and unbuckled his anklets.

  "Better," the footman murmured. He pulled a cloth out of the bucket and began to run it over Renart's feet. It was almost gentle enough to tickle, but not quite. Instead, it just left him feeling almost agonizingly sensitive, the slow passes of the cloth quickening his breath and hardening his cock.

  Renart licked his lips, fingers curling against the bench. He wasn't sure he could bring himself to blink. There shouldn't have been anything erotic about it—wiping his foot, ringing the cloth, soaking it again—but that didn't seem to matter to his body. When one foot was clean and the footman was picking up the other, he couldn't stay silent any more. "Do you give each of your guests this much personal attention?" His voice sounded hoarser than he'd intended, and he felt his cheeks burn.

  The footman glanced up at him again, expression warm. "Is that a complaint I hear?" he asked softly, cleaning the other foot.

  "No, just…"

  "Just nothing, then."

  Renart shuddered at the next pass of the footman's fingers. "Just… if you're going to work me up this much… is that the only thing you want to do?"

  He was an incubus, after all. There's no way he hadn't noticed Renart's interest.

  "Hm." The footman's gaze was still heated, lips curved. He dropped the rag back in the bucket, and slid his fingers up Renart's thighs, making Renart arch with a shock of pleasure.

  The footman's fingers caressed slowly up the inside of his legs, then pushed them open. The sudden lack of balance made Renart fall back against the wall behind the bench, breath hitching with lust. He felt shockingly exposed for how clothed he was, and shuddered as the footman passed a hand over his groin.

  "I do see you're quite worked up," the footman breathed.

  "Yes…"

  "But I've duties to attend to," the footman said. His expression shifted, warm smile becoming a sudden sharp-edged cruel thing, the pointed tip of his tongue sticking out between his parted lips. "More's the shame. You might as well go in and dance just like that."

  "I'll get eaten alive," Renart protested, squirming, trying to sit up properly.

  The footman shrugged, keeping him back with a hand on his chest. "It's a risk."

  "Won't you help me?" It came out pleadingly, his tone embarrassing, but he couldn't seem to stop it.

  "I will not," the footman breathed, his eyes glittering. Despite that, he pressed an open-mouthed kiss to Renart's tented pants, hot breath riling him up more. "Though I do wish you luck in resolving your dilemma."

  And with that, the footman rose, drying his hands off perfunctorily on his own black pant legs, and headed back around the side of the house.

  Sprawled ungracefully on the bench, Renart let out a soft whine. He'd told the truth, and knew it. I'm already a lamb to the slaughter just by being a human attending this party. Going in dazed and
aroused was tantamount to suicide.

  Wet feet cooling in the evening air, he licked his lips and unbuttoned his pants.

  This was a bad idea too. Even if he was alone in the garden for now, there was no guarantee it would stay that way. Plenty of demons fed on sex, and if any were close enough to sense him, he'd be inviting them, and wouldn't necessarily have the liberty of picking his partner. He'd be lucky if it were a cubant, too; there were plenty of other kinds of demons who fed on flesh and fear and pain.

  He squirmed in place and sighed, throwing his concerns away. Worrying about it was pointless. Going inside like this was a bigger risk, and waiting for demon-touched arousal to go away on its own might cost him his chance to meet the prince. The only other option was to head home, and there was no way he'd do that. He'd taken all these chances so far in order to meet Hrahez—what were a few more?

  He'd just have to be quick about it.

  Renart closed his eyes, licked his hand, and then curled it around himself. He jacked himself quickly, almost relentlessly, shoving a hand up inside his shirt to tweak a nipple into a hard point. He couldn't stop thinking about how something about this—the scent, the energy of it, whatever—might draw attention, and if anything, that made him harder.

  Good, he thought. Go fast. I'll meet Prince Hrahez.

  He rubbed his wet feet against each other. He remembered the feeling of the footman's hands there, the slow pass of his cloth, and let himself get lost in the visceral memory. He thought of the footman's eyes, the gold shifting in their depths, the way he'd kept gazing up at him. Renart shuddered hard, shoving his hips up as he thrust into his own grip, his shoulders grinding back into the wall behind him.

  It didn't take much more than that. He came quickly and a bit perfunctorily, not very satisfying. He was getting too used to sleeping with demons, he thought wryly, hardly able to hear his own thoughts past the pounding of his heart. Anything less than that inhuman high was starting to feel a bit disappointing.

  He couldn't find it in himself to regret that.

  Renart wiped himself down with the cloth that the footman had left behind, then cleaned his hands, tucked his cock away and refastened his anklets.

  Finally he got up again. His rear was a little cold from being pressed to the stone bench, but he felt good—better than he had before meeting the footman. More confident and less easily distracted by his own excitement and anticipation.

  At least he'd managed to take the edge off.

  Keeping his head up, he turned the corner of the building again to the entrance. The previous footman was gone, which struck him as a bit odd. Still, even with a new demon to greet him there, he didn't have any trouble. The footman's replacement, a red-skinned and bald-headed giant of a demon, simply read over his invitation and gestured him in.

  The ambiance washed over him immediately. Music was playing, though nobody was dancing, as though they were waiting for something. The prince's arrival, perhaps? Nobody was showing any particular obsequiences to any one person, so Hrahez likely wasn't here yet, rather than here and in a shape Renart wouldn't recognize.

  Looking around took his breath away, though. He felt stunned by the variety of demons mingling together and filling the room in a mass of sizes, shapes, and colors. They were all over the grand hall, standing together, walking around, flying, hovering near tables, conversing. Some were clothed, but many were not. Some weren't even in shapes that could manage clothes if they tried. A creature largely made of eyes and tentacles wandered past him as he gawked.

  I could have anything here. The thought came almost unbidden. He'd seen what he'd thought was a lot of demons, those that showed up to the festival, or those who passed through Potfeld, but there were kinds of demons here he'd never laid eyes on. He wanted to know more, wanted to hear more, knew he probably wouldn't survive doing so but—

  But if he got distracted he wouldn't meet Hrahez.

  Suddenly the crowd seemed almost absurd, more an obstacle than an appeal. If he wanted to be around demons, becoming Demon Prince Hrahez's lover would grant that, so why get distracted now? It felt almost like a challenge that had been put down for him. Can you ignore this? Come find me.

  Even as he knew the thought was absurd, he smiled a little to himself. Of course, he thought back, filling out the fantasy.

  He drew in a slow breath and focused.

  The safest bet in surviving to meet the prince was probably in staying near the edges, at least for now. He was already attracting attention by hovering in the doorway. Hurriedly, he walked over to one of the refreshment tables.

  He nearly regretted doing so right away. The arms and legs that served for food on the table were clearly of no animal origin, and he averted his eyes, starting to retreat. With a jolt, he ran into someone, and jerked away again, bumping into yet another solid figure in his failed retreat.

  "Careful, son." The demon he'd backed into put a hand on Renart's shoulder to steady him. They were a tall individual of several sexes, and a sort of demon Renart vaguely recalled liked fear. Curling green hair was rolling down to cover their chest, solid-black eyes turned in Renart's direction. "This isn't the safest place for a live one of you."

  Renart managed a smile. "I'm starting to realize that," he said. He knew demons, he reminded himself, even if he was no longer sure he knew enough demons. He certainly wasn't used to being the only human. "I'll find a better place to mingle. I wouldn't want to be mistaken for another round of refreshments."

  The demon laughed, the sound rolling over itself like waves, and snapped a finger off the food, tapping their mouth with it. "Oh, son, I'm sure you'll find people who'll think that regardless."

  "I'm sure I will," he said, mouth a little dry again. "Well, it'll make for an exciting party."

  "It will, it will," the demon agreed. They narrowed those black eyes. Lacking sclera or iris, it was impossible to tell exactly where they were looking, but Renart felt the pressure of their gaze regardless. "I'm sure I could arrange some protection for a pretty boy like you. Would you like my company?"

  "Thanks," Renart said, and smiled nicely. "But I'm waiting to meet someone."

  "Is that so? More's the shame," the demon said, lips turning down in a slight frown. "You might regret it before the night's out. Do take care," they added coolly, and bit into the fingertip.

  Renart left at a pace he hoped wouldn't be too obviously one of escape, more excited by the encounter than terrified by it. He managed to shoulder his way across to a part of the room far from the refreshment tables, tucked in between a potted plant and some hanging curtains.

  Isolating himself still didn't mean he was left alone. Plenty of the partygoers had seen him, and he found himself fielding conversation after conversation, proposition after proposition, threat after threat. He kept the invitation clutched in his hand like a sweaty ward, a promise that he belonged here, was a guest. That he couldn't be harmed unless he permitted himself to be.

  He did know demons well enough to know that, if at any point he let his guard down, said or did anything that might constitute permission… invitation or no invitation, he wouldn't have a chance.

  "Excuse me," he murmured, dodging around a mass of limbs and eyes as it approached him, as if he had somewhere to be on the other side of the room.

  Then, shortly, "No, thank you," he said politely, shifting behind a large ornamental vase to get out of the direct shadow of a tall man.

  Repeatedly, he moved to new hiding places, avoided glances, ducked out of the way of approaching demons. He didn't think he'd ever watched his mouth so thoroughly, forced himself to be so affably neutral constantly, turned down so many offers and shrugged off so much intimidation. He'd never had the need to, and, more to the point, had never wanted to.

  Finally, when he thought he might not be able to handle it any more, the prince arrived.

  Hrahez looked almost exactly as Renart had seen him before—surprising, given that cubants were shapeshifters. If Renart could change f
orm whenever he wanted, he didn't think he'd be the same way twice. But Hrahez was completely recognizable: long black hair, heavy curled horns lifting his chin high, draped robes. Perhaps it was one of the requirements of rank to be so easily known. A veil covered his face, which served to keep him distant from the others in some strange way.

  The room fell silent when Hrahez entered. A hush spreading like the force of his presence had stolen their collective breath. It felt that way to Renart, at least, leaving his throat tight, his eyes wide. Hrahez was as beautiful as Renart had remembered. He thought that the demons surrounding him could probably hear how hard his heart was pounding. It almost felt like this had all been worth it even if he only just caught sight of him again.

  No, he reminded himself. It's not nearly enough.

  Glancing around the room, Hrahez's gaze fell on a petite demon—a beautiful creature, smooth all over as if carved from obsidian—and bowed with a smile, offering a hand. The obsidian demon took it, and the silence was abruptly broken as music sprang up from the orchestra pit.

  Immediately, the room was awhirl with dancing. As Renart had suspected, everyone had only been waiting until Hrahez arrived before they could begin. Heart still hammering, Renart pressed himself back against the wall as demons split into pairs, trios, more, shapes gyrating and spinning throughout the room. He forced himself to breathe in deeply, ignoring the strange perfumes and unusual smells hanging in the air, and tried to calm down.