#owowo

   A fairy does not only invite one over for tea. 

  There is always an ulterior motive, the hope that they may ensnare their unsuspecting guest and steal all that they have, or subject them to a fate even worse. There is no rejecting the invitation, either, especially if you are one of the night folk.

  When Aleksander finds the gilded card on his mantlepiece, sent by a fair one named Stellan, he is almost certain he will die. Many of the night folk who visit a fairy never return. But maybe he will change that. Maybe he will drain this fairy of his blood and plunge iron into his flesh, ridding the world of another of their kind. He will dodge the stakes and hide from the sun, and he will win.

  He dresses in preparation, hiding every inch of his skin with his ebony-black robes and covering his face with a veil. The sun cannot touch any inch of him if he plans to leave the fairy’s house alive.

  Just as an extra precaution, he slides an iron knife into one of his coat’s many pockets. One can never be too careful when dealing with fairies. 

  Aleksander reads up on the rules of etiquette while walking to Stellan’s house. If he violates even one of them, his fairy host is then allowed to punish him as he sees fit, which usually means killing him. He has salt in his pocket to counteract the effects of fairy food before it can magick away any rational thought.

  He arrives at Stellan’s house, a pretty little thing painted beige with a forget-me-not blue roof. The porch is trimmed with pots of hyacinth. Aleksander steels his nerves and knocks.

  The door swings open almost at once, revealing a young man too beautiful to be a killer. His sheer, pastel-blue blouse and shorts swirl as though in water, kept on his body only by the hyacinth blossoms around his wrists and ankles. Cornsilk hair falls into his eyes, and his blue-violet eyes are alight with dark glee. “Good afternoon.”

  “Good afternoon.” Aleksander bows, mustering a smile when the fairy bows back. “I take you’re Stellan?”

  “Yes, that is what you may call me.” Stellan holds out a hand. “May I have your name?”

  Many a night-folk has died here. They gave their true name to the fairy, and in the process gave their life away too. He will not fall for the same trick. “You may not. But you may refer to me as Aleksander.”

  The vibrant blue morpho wings on Stellan’s back flutter in agitation, but their owner shows nothing. “Very well. You may come in, Aleksander.”

  He dips his head in thanks before stepping over the doorway and into the house. The living room smells of lavender, and the furniture he can see is plain and pale. It certainly does not have the frivolous flamboyity that fae homes are usually known for.

  Stellan’s hands are on his shoulders before he knows it, finger drawing circles in the thick dark fabric. “May I take your coat?” 

  Aleksander glances back briefly; the fairy has a pretty silver ring on his fourth finger, one that’s far more beautiful than his own jewelled weapon. “No, thank you,” he responds. “It’s a bit chilly today, and I would rather not risk falling ill.”

  Those eyes, lined sultrily with silver ink, narrow. But he does not insist. “Please wait in the sitting room while I set the table.”

  How easy it would be, to lunge while Stellan’s back is turned. It would take no effort at all to pin him down, to drive his knife deep into his neck with the power that an explicit invitation gifts him. But he cannot. Not yet, at least.

  He goes to sit down at the soft sofa. The sitting room happens to have two ceiling-to-floor windows, and Aleksander is suddenly very grateful for his veil. He stares at the assortment of items on the tea-table, at books and needles and blocks of resin. They all look too normal to be owned by someone so wicked. 

  Stellan is humming, and he can be heard even beneath the sound of clinking cutlery. Aleksander reaches into his pocket and touches his knife for good luck.

  There is suddenly a soft fluttering of wings, and Stellan lands right behind him. “Tea is ready,” he announces in his soft, hypnotic voice.

  He follows him to the dining room, watching the soft, fluid sway of his hips. He follows this floaty, pretty fellow to the most dangerous meal of his life.

  The dining table, he observes, is set with a teapot, flower-painted teacups and a gilded, silver tea-tower. If it weren’t holding food with the ability to kill him, Aleksander would find it pretty.

   “I spent so much time preparing for this afternoon,” Stellan wisps. His gossamery clothes flutter in the gentle breeze, long sleeves flapping at him as though trying to reel him in. “I hope you will like the food.”

  He sits down in a chair the fairy pulls out for him, keeping his eyes trained on him. Stellan takes his seat across him and lifts up the teapot with long-fingered hands. “I brewed some rose tea for us today.” He pours Aleksander a cup. The cloying scent of the golden tea is nauseating. “The fae type, of course.”

   The fae’s inability to lie comes in handy again — now he knows he will need salt to counteract whatever effects the fae food has. But he cannot simply whip out the pouch of salt he has in his pocket, not when Stellan is watching with those mad periwinkle eyes. So Aleksander slips his hand into the pouch and takes a pinch, then nonchalantly passes his hand over his teacup while reaching for the sugar pot. The salt falls in, thankfully escaping his host's scrutiny.

   “Here.” Stellan places a canapé of sorts onto his plate. It is glistening with brown sauce; the puff pastry is glossy.

  “Thank you,” Aleksander says. He cannot sprinkle salt on the pastry where it will clearly be visible, so he goes for the next best thing. He casually picks up his teacup and saucer, wetting the tip of his index finger while he drinks the tea. It is heavy and bittersweet, and he’d be long-gone if not for the salt inside. He then slips his hand back inside the pouch and picks up a few grains of salt with his wet fingertip. The canapé goes down harmlessly.

   Stellan is watching him as he chews. Aleksander swallows and smiles behind his veil. “It is excellent.”

  “I am glad to hear that.” He retrieves a tart from the bottom layer and nibbles at it. “Please, take more.”

  To refuse would be a death sentence. Aleksander takes a dainty, cheese-filled choux pastry next, and wets his finger again under the guise of wiping his mouth. He manages to eat that without getting into trouble, but his veil catches a few crumbs. Swiftly, before Stellan can say anything about it, he brushes them away.

  He must start a conversation soon, lest silence reign for too long and he is declared inhospitable. Aleksander wipes his fingers on his napkin and looks up, saying, “your cooking is truly phenomenal. I have never tasted anything like it.”

  “Thank you.” Stellan bows his head in acknowledgement. His light, fluffy, white-gold hair glows in the abhorrent sunlight and resembles a halo about his head. “They do say that fae food has downright enchanting effects on the eater, after all.” He smiles, showing his pointed teeth from behind those pale rosy lips. “But one must be very careful with seasoning when working with them. Just a tiny bit of salt is enough to ruin the taste.”

  Aleksander notices how his eyes linger on the tea. At least he can’t say anything about it. “If even somebody with such an uncultured palate as myself can appreciate this, it is most definitely good.” 

  His long eyelashes flutter coquettishly; those manic eyes seem to pierce right through him. “Don’t say that,” he whispers. “Some would consider you as a man who is quite well-versed with the gourmet. After all, I believe you are here for the most enticing type of fae food?”

  He knows, he knows, he knows. But he must play the part of the polite host and cannot directly trap him. Stellan is fully aware of this, surely. Aleksander shrugs, feeling light-headed. He sneaks himself another grain of salt. “I’m not sure which type you speak of.”

  “You don’t know? I’m talking about fairy’s blood. It is incredibly sought-after, especially by those who roam in darkness.”

  “By those like me, you mean.”

  “Yes.” Stellan grits his teeth; still he cannot lie. Grudgingly, he continues, “I do not know why they want it so badly when us fae cannot even be turned.”

  “Some say that fairy blood has healing properties, but that’s not true.” Aleksander runs a thumb over the iron ring he has on — his only defence lest his host stop being amicable. “There are many rumours surrounding it and it’s difficult to know which is true and which is not.”

  He drinks from his cup, lips shiny with enchanted tea. “Well, what do you think? You are one of those dark things, surely you must know the truth.”

  Dark things. Not another of the folk, but a mere thing. And they wonder why the night folk despise the pretentious fae. This is his chance. “I do not know, for I have never had fairy blood before.”

  “Really?” Stellan tilts his head, gazes at him from behind those long eyelashes. He brushes his hair away and exposes his neck, creamy and flawless. Though he has not yet tasted it, Aleksander knows that it will be more delicious and deadly than any of the foodstuffs on the tea-tower. “Well, you have a fairy right in front of you, and permission to taste their blood.”

  It is so tempting. He cannot tear his eyes away from Stellan, baring himself so unabashedly. Every cell in Aleksander’s body screams at him to attack, to pin him against the wall and sink his fangs into his neck. 

  Stellan removes his silver ring and places it on the table in plain view, blinking placidly at him in a convincing image of surrender. “Go on,” he purrs, “you know you want to.”

  Goodness, he does. The rowan berries around his neck protect him from the glamour of the offer, but the mere tone in which it’s said, magical or not, is almost enough to convince him. His velvety voice envelopes Aleksander, makes his heart race. Heat pulsing through his very being, he stands up before he can stop himself. He hides his hands behind his back and slips off his gloves.

  The closer he gets to Stellan, the harder it is to hold back. His pretty pink lips are smirking softly; his eyes gleam. Aleksander drops the gloves onto the floor and reaches out to take ahold of his chin.

  He strikes.

  Grabbing his wrist, Stellan prevents the iron ring from making contact with his skin at the last moment. Fixing Aleksander with a frenzied glare, he takes his ring finger into his mouth and tears the ring away with his teeth, spitting it out onto the table. “You won’t take me that easily, night-folk,” he sneers. 

  “But I will have you.” Aleksander twists his wrist free and grabs his shoulder, pressing his fingers into the soft fabric of his blouse. He grabs Stellan’s chin with his other hand, hissing, “I will have you, and you will yield to me.”

  “Will I?” His other hand is on Aleksander’s arm, nails digging in in an attempt to free the bruising grip on his face. That courteous host is long-gone. 

  Shaking his hand off, Aleksander pushes Stellan against the wall of the dining room. He bares his teeth and bites his neck, probing the marks with his tongue as he does so. He breathes him in deeply, all the while trying to keep Stellan pinned against the wall.

  He’s writhing underneath him, trembling and teary-eyed. Aleksander feels him press against him beseechingly, as though he wanted to be bitten all this time. He bites him a second time, just to hear him gasp. When he pulls away, he’s light-headed too, panting against Stellan’s pierced neck. His fangs graze lightly against his skin.

  Mere seconds after the bite, Aleksander’s vision begins to blur. His mind, which was running a mile a minute with a plan on just when to pull his knife out, goes fuzzy. He feels warm and floaty, as though he’s had one too many glasses of good wine. His arms slacken.

  Losing control, he leans in and nips Stellan, not hard enough to draw blood but enough to sting. He sighs, tilting his head back to show more of his neck. The floaty fabric of his blouse yields to Aleksander’s insistent fingers. He cannot tell if he intended to bite and suck along his foe’s collarbone, leaving the tiniest pink marks along the pristine skin, but the sensation feels amazing. Aleksander trails them down to his sternum, relishing every twitch with every nibble.

  Stellan is clearly as intoxicated as him, high on his bite just as Aleksander is high on the aphrodisiac that is fae blood. Stellan releases his piercing grip on his arm and twists his fingers in his hair, pulling him in until their lips brush together. He tilts his head slightly in question.

  Aleksander smashes their lips together, tasting tea and sugar as he kisses him. He groans, butterfly wings fluttering lightning-fast. Stellan traces his bottom lip with his tongue. Heat seems to pulse from them both, setting them aflame with hatred that has miraculously transformed into desire. 

  He can hardly breathe when he pulls away, arms covered in the red crescents his foe’s nails left behind and lips stinging. Stellan looks downright ruined, with bite-marks all over his neck and collarbone and swollen lips. His eyes are glazed over. With dark satisfaction, Aleksander notices that his blouse has been pulled away to expose one of his slight shoulders. 

  They stay like that for a while, panting and delirious against the wall. Aleksander is the first to speak, breathlessly announcing, “if fae blood can make a night-folk do this, I am not surprised that many want it so badly.”

  “You seem to be a peculiar exception, for most night-folk strong enough to taste fae blood never leave the fairy alive.” He smooths down his ruffled hair, trying in vain to cover the marks left by their passionate duel. “In any case, since you have managed to survive this afternoon, I see no reason why you may not come again.”

  “To risk my life once more?”

  He shakes his head. “No, to have more of this.” Stellan gestures at his bruised neck. “Though if you would like to be kissed within an inch of your life again, I would not be against it.”

  “Neither would I,” Aleksander says. He cups his cheek gently, running his thumb over a mark at the corner of his mouth. “So when I arrive tomorrow, I expect I’ll be served un-enchanted food, and be guaranteed to leave here alive?”

  “Tomorrow?” He smirks. “Certainly, Aleksander. I will be waiting tomorrow afternoon, with treats far more delicious than the ones served today.” He pecks him on the nose. “I will be looking forward to it.”

  He bends down to pick his gloves up and slides them back on. “Until then.”