Page 26 of Mischief Maker
My stomach roils with jealousy at the idea of anyone else having my sweet Faela, and it is a strange and unfamiliar feeling. I want to be the only creature to know her this way, to love her as she deserves.
I almost don’t notice it as I think it. Love. Is that what this feeling is, to want so deeply for her happiness, to see in her all my needs and desires fulfilled? I’ve heard of it, listened to songs and read poems about it, but never really understood it until now. My past affairs have been merely that, sating a need, pursuing beauty, or simply enjoying the world and all the blessings in it.
Perhaps the curse the oracle put on me was not meant to kill the farm. Perhaps it was meant to hurt me in an even deeper way, by making me fall in love with a mortal—and then taking her from me.
“I will never forget you, either,” I tell her, my cock finally slipping free as I bring her closer to my body. Belatedly, I hope that I have not put a child in her. Then leaving her would be an even more tortuous fate.
We will have to do something about that in the future. I vow to keep a close eye on her the next two weeks and taste her often until I’m certain I haven’t planted a seed in her.
Twist my arm.
When the sun is fully down and Faela’s breaths have gone quiet and steady, I give myself over to sleep.
The next morning, she is up much earlier than I am, as is usual. I wake up long enough to notice that she’s freeing herself from my embrace, tugging off my arm and unwinding my tail from around her thigh. It thumps unhappily as she departs the bed, and I pull her quilt close to me instead because it smells like her.
When I’m finally up—my body had a lot of magic to recover after using up so much of it on my quest—the sun is shining and the world feels like a new and wondrous place.
Outside, Faela is laboring over the animals.
“Sweet girl?” I call out, and she shoots to her feet like a marionette on a string. She hikes up her dress and jogs over to me, then freely flings her arms around my waist as if she’s been waiting a long time to do that.
I knew she had this side to her. Underneath all that misery and death, there was an affectionate, passionate woman waiting to be let out.
“I’m glad you’re up,” she says. “Look.”
When we’ve finally disentangled, her pointed finger draws my eyes up to the fields. There are patches of green among all the dying plants. Some of them have recovered, as if time was rewound.
I gather her up close again and breathe in deeply. It looks like my mother did intend to help me, after all.
“What can I do today?” I ask.
Faela hesitates, clearly afraid of using more tasks—especially now that we have crossed this boundary between us.
“Can you water and tend the plants?” she asks hopefully.
I nod in agreement. I will happily do this for her.
My farm girl clasps my hands in hers and kisses me on the cheek. “Thank you.”
I bound away to do my work, looking forward to when we’re finished and the sun is setting once more.
Faela
That afternoon, Kireth hunts down some ingredients to make another potion, one he asks me not so politely to drink.
“I saw what went in there!” It was altogether foul. I cover my mouth with one hand to prevent it from even getting near me. “I will not!”
He puts a hand on his hip, annoyed at my rebelliousness.
“This is important. We must make sure I don’t plant a half-immortal in you.” Then he unties the string of his loincloth, letting it fall down and revealing all of him, every last delectable inch of him.
“That’s the price,” he says, staring at me as his blood starts to flow down, causing his cock to slowly thicken and rise. The moment I see it, I want it, so I reach in his direction—but Kireth shakes the bowl in front of me again. “Nuh-uh. Not until you drink it.”
Finally I give in, and try to guzzle it all down before my stomach can revolt. I gag a few times, working my hardest to keep the terrible liquid in my belly. My god pats my back to comfort me, but I know he’s a little amused, too. When I’m finished and I don’t think I’ll throw it all up, he hefts me into his arms and carries me upstairs.
The droplets of rejuvenating potion are indeed working. It’s slow, but the black mold has begun to drain out of the soil, as if the filthy film covering everything is now being pried away. For the crops that have recovered, Kireth uses his magic to foster their growth.
“The good soil helps,” he says, flexing his arm for me as if to show off just how powerful he is. “And my well refills much more rapidly now.”
