A Touch of Mistletoe (20 page)

An-An's warm, happy lethargy fled as her heartbeat ratcheted up and a hundred anxious fears clawed at her mind. Was this job-related? Sex-related? It didn't sound like a happy kind of tell you something. "Sure."

"I don't think I was ready to meet your family," M.C. said. "I know I said I'd come for Christmas and I know I said I was ready to take that step, but I'm not, not yet."

"Oh." An-An turned on her side so they could face each other and pillowed her head on her arm. "It's okay. Trust me, I know how overwhelming they can be. If you're not feeling ready by the time the New Year rolls around, we can skip that too, or I can go by myself, it's no big deal. My mom and dad would love to meet you, and they're both super friendly and welcoming, but only when you're ready."

"Thank you." M.C. genuinely looked relieved and reached out to take An-An's hand.

An-An rolled onto her back, taking their linked hands with her and nestled them against her chest, right between her breasts.

"I love you, know you," M.C. said after another long minute, voice small and tentative again.

An-An smiled. "I love you too."

Beside her, M.C. let out a small breath.

Closing her eyes, An-An let herself drift off to sleep.

Two Parts Mistletoe

Megan Derr

Kingston yawned as he looked out the window at the snow, torn between annoyance that there was going to be so much of it—was already a dismaying amount—and pleasure that Frost Days would have snow. Last year had been unseasonably warm, and it was hard to feel festive when winter felt more like early fall.

And in four days, right in the middle of Frost Days, he would be meeting with Hux. Heat coiled through him, settled low in his gut, tempted him to crawl back into bed and bring himself off while imagining the beautiful Hux spread out beneath him, or on top of him, fucking himself on Kingston's cock.

Unfortunately, in the last minute chaos before everybody settled into the ten-day-long, end of year festivities, there would be a rush of people seeking potions for every ailment under the sky, along with all manner of 'festive' potions, from the playful ones that briefly changed the color of a person's skin or made their voices as deep as a bullfrog, to those strictly for private, adult use, and a whole range between.

Which meant there was no time for indulgences. But in four days he would be vividly reminded why the wait was always worth it, and anticipation would sustain him in the meantime.

If he wished perhaps he and Hux could change the nature of their relationship, move it beyond the twice-monthly assignations of Acacia House and turn it into something more… well, Kingston might yet broach the subject, but he'd not quite worked up the nerve.

Shrugging into his dark plum jacket, he buttoned it up as he turned to examine himself in the mirror, fussing with his dark hair and double checking that he had shaved himself well despite being half-asleep when he'd done it. His fingers lingered on the small, white scar on the left side of his jaw, a remnant of a potion that had heated too quickly and spat at him. Luckily the scar was the only damage done, though it always stood out bright against his dark olive skin.

Fussing with his cravat, securing it with an amethyst pin that matched his earrings, he  finally pulled on gleaming, dark brown boots and headed downstairs to the shop. A pot of tea was waiting at his desk, and Eliza smiled in greeting from the front counter before she turned to give the latest customer her full attention.

Kingston sat down, looked at all the work waiting for him, and stifled a sigh. Eager to avoid it a moment longer, he looked out at the shop, grateful he was the owner and seldom had to work the counter anymore. Normally there would be assistants to help Eliza, but he had told them that if the snow seemed bad they weren't to bother coming in.

He paused as a figure all the way at the back of the line caught his attention. Why was he familiar? Kingston stared surreptitiously at the man for several minutes, frustration growing.  When he finally figured it out, he nearly spit his tea all over his desk.

Hastily setting the tea aside, he coughed into his handkerchief. After the coughing fit had abated, he dabbed at his lips then tucked the handkerchief away and went back to sneaking glances.

Kingston knew the man only as Hux. Not his real name, of course; Kingston never used his real name either. That was the entire point of Acacia House. His body flushed with heat as he recalled his most recent visit to Acacia and all the things he'd done to Hux in the candlelit room at the end of the hall.

The Hux he knew always wore faded breeches that clung to his thighs in distracting fashion, a threadbare shirt, and a well-worn jacket the same dark brown as his eyes. His hair was always loosely bound at his nape, and he seldom bothered with gloves, but always wore a hat, coat, and old boots.

The man across the room, waiting with ill-concealed impatience, was something else again. He wore black breeches, dark gold stockings with a lighter gold ivy pattern, black shoes with gold flowers in lieu of buckles, and a dark green jacket with black and gold trim. The black waistcoat beneath it had the same ivy pattern as the stockings, and a black lace cravat, set with a gold and emerald pin in the shape of an ivy leaf, finished the outfit. His brown hair was braided back and secured in a knot at the back of his head, and gold-rimmed spectacles sat on his nose, lending a severity Kingston could not match to the man from Acacia.

Affixed to the front left side of his jacket was a pin: a raven perched on a rolled-up scroll. The mark of the secretaries, and it was in gold, which meant he was a master secretary. He must work for a noble, at the very least, to be dressed so finely.

Not at all what Kingston would have expected of the sweet, pliant man he fucked twice a month.

He looked away, put his attention back on his work. Goddess knew there was more than enough of it, and if he didn't finish going through the invoices,
his
secretary was going to put something in his tea. An ominous thought, given the options available in a potionmaker's shop.

Opening the top drawer of his desk, Kingston pulled out his reading glasses and slid them on. He took a sip of tea, then pulled the stack of invoices close. He examined each one closely, signing off where they were correct, making notes on others where they needed to be adjusted because of discounts or additional costs, or where the customer had an account with the shop.

But every few minutes he looked up and took in the slowly-shrinking line, the way Hux looked increasingly impatient… No, he looked
upset
. Whatever he needed, it was urgent, but he couldn't risk making a show of it.

There were generally three reasons for such behavior in a potion shop. The most likely was simply that it was something embarrassing. Many of their customers were like that: impatient, anxious, fussing around the shop until it was empty and they could ask in a whisper for the potion they sought. Usually young people needing a cure for some awkward ailment or, more often, a potion with a sexual purpose.

Unfortunately, anxious also infrequently meant someone seeking out dubious, and even outright illegal, potions. The rest came seeking a solution to the aforementioned dubious potions, and those were the ones Kingston hated the most because all too often, by the time they came to him it was too late.

Kingston by far preferred the embarrassed sort. Anything was better than having to deal with the other two reasons, which all too often entailed anger, violence, and tragedy. He
really
hoped Hux was the embarrassed sort, though he found that hard to believe given all the things that sweet mouth was capable of saying—screaming.

He lifted his eyes to the ceiling, then resumed his work, finishing the dread invoices and moving on to inventory. The damnable thing about owning a potion shop was that he seldom got to make the potions. He employed two first class potionmakers, four second class, and three apprentices. He also had a secretary and two deliverymen, though if business kept increasing at its current rate he would have to take on at least a third.

The bell over the door chimed, and he looked up again, watched one customer depart and Hux step one person closer. The shop was on the large end for a potion shop—but necessary in order to handle the business he got, being situated on a busy street right where three major sections of the city collided. His shop was open for twelve hours, and emergencies were welcome at
all
hours.

The front of the shop featured two large windows made of blocks of frosted glass to let in light while also maintaining discretion for all who entered. There was a wide counter that ran the width of the shop, behind which was the work area where all the potions were made. Kingston's desk was tucked to one side, up a short staircase to the little raised area that was his office, blocked off from the rest by a railing. A special screen kept him mostly hidden from the customers but let him see the whole of the shop.

Out in the customer area, the remaining two walls were dedicated to shelves and shelves of potions, tonics, creams, powders, and various other items that people popped in to buy frequently. That was where the bulk of the money was made, though he still did a brisk business in custom work. Well, his shop did. The only thing he did briskly was avoid the confounded paperwork. He'd become a potion master to make the bloody potions, not to be buried in paperwork.

Stifling a sigh, Kingston poured a fresh cup of tea and got on with work.

But not even half an hour later, Hux's voice snared his attention, a pleasing tenor that lacked all of the warmth Kingston was used to hearing. Instead it was thin, scared, as he greeted Eliza, the first class potionmaker who ran the shop the first six hours of the day.

Kingston frowned and set his pen aside, giving up all pretense of work as he listened.

"How can I help you, good sir?" Eliza asked in her professional, but gentle way. Around them the shop was empty, the steady stream of customers having finally trickled away. For the moment, anyway.

Hux rested his hands on the counter, clenched and then relaxed them. They looked small in the black gloves he wore, closed at the wrists with small gold buttons. "Pardon my bluntness, but I've no other way to say it. I believe my employer has been given a love potion. I'm afraid I've no idea what to do, or how best to handle the matter. And there are complications, in that if I am correct about the identity of the person responsible, then he is not a man to cross. I thought I would get the assessment of an expert before I proceeded further."

"You made the right decision," Eliza said firmly. "I am not the one to help you, however. I'm only a first class maker. You need the master maker. One moment—"

"Bring him back here, Eliza," Kingston interjected, removing his reading glasses and setting them atop the inventory papers. "We'll be in the back room. If anyone else comes to see me, tell them to leave a note and I'll speak to them when I can, but they should try to resolve the matter with you."

"Yes, sir," Eliza replied and flipped up the middle portion of the counter, urging Hux to come through.

Kingston stood, left his desk, and headed down the short set of stairs, stopping as Hux and Eliza drew close. He saw the brief widening of Hux's eyes, the dull flush that overtook his cheeks. "Thank you, Eliza."

She nodded and reached out to squeeze his arm, silently sharing in the anxiety they both felt at the appearance of a love potion. He covered her hand briefly, tried to smile reassuringly, before she returned to the counter.

Potions fell into three categories: general use, prescribed use, and special case. General use was the stuff anyone could walk in and buy. Prescribed use required an official recommendation from a master healer.

Special case potions were usually used only to counter the effects of illegal potions and could only be made by a potion master, and the matter first had to be properly recorded and filed with the Office of Potions. They were not required often, and unfortunately the situations rarely resolved happily. By the time anyone sought him out, it was usually far too late to do more than put an end to the misery.

Love potions… there was very little worse than a love potion. Bad enough to be a victim of the intended effects, but if the effects were not stopped in time, madness and eventual suicide followed. Use of a love potion was classed as a sex crime and came with the highest penalties.

He led Hux past the work stations and the storage closets, all the way to the back room where they stored more valuable and rare components along with extra equipment. There was also a small bed, table, and chair for whoever got stuck working the overnight. Usually Kingston took care of it since he lived above the shop anyway, but when he wasn't there the duty was split among his first and second class makers.

Motioning Hux to the table, Kingston went to the little stove to get a fresh pot of tea going, pulling down the pot and cups, sugar, and fetching the bottle of cream delivered just that morning. He set out a plate of pastries Eliza had brought to work with her, then took the remaining seat. "I suppose, uh, proper introductions are in order. I am Kingston Lockwood, Master Potionmaker and proprietor of the Two Parts Mistletoe potionshop." He rubbed the end of his nose, then dropped his hands to the table. "A pleasure to meet you, properly."

Hux smiled wryly. "Maurice Huxtable. Please, Huxtable is fine. I do not care for my given name. I wish we were meeting under happier circumstances."

"As do I," Kingston replied. "Tell me everything pertaining to your employer and why you think he has been poisoned by a love potion." The kettle started whistling and Kingston got up to fix the tea, pouring hot water into the waiting pot, then bringing it over to the table and leaving it to steep. He nodded for Hux to resume.

"I am a master secretary in the employ of Lord Oswald Proudfoot and have worked for him for the past ten years, first as an apprentice, then undersecretary, and for the past five as master secretary since his previous retired. We are good friends. He has, these past two seasons, been in search of a spouse. Lord Elroy Elmhurst approached him last season, but Lord Oswald did not care for him and turned him away. Lord Elmhurst seemed to accept and withdraw, but of late he has been in the same places as Lord Oswald, even those Elmhurst would normally avoid. Elmhurst ignores brush offs, direct requests, and commands to be left in peace. The man is, quite frankly, frightening. But going to the authorities…"