My Fae Valentine

Chapter 1 They were fighting again. Voices raised, vague insults flew back and forth. I was biding my time. Sure, I could interrupt now. Smooth things over before it got out of hand. But this conflict was important. Necessary. Future conflicts of this exact nature would arise if I didn’t let this one play out. Sometimes the job is about stopping the fight, and sometimes it’s about managing it. The wisdom to tell the two circumstances apart was why I was the best in the business. Elder Kaelm of House Kaelm made a sharp noise in the back of his throat. He didn’t look like an elder. Fae usually didn’t. There were no wrinkles on his face or hands. Bright green eyes were sharp, too, as were those exaggeratedly pointed ears. His brown suit jacket—some no-brand thing it looked like he picked up at a second-hand store—sat stiff on his shoulders. I could see his muscles tense. He wasn’t yet ready to go across the table. But he was thinking about it. Next to him, Master Craftsman Dyllam was fuming. Angular features were pale, which made his platinum-blonde hair look like a fake wig from a shitty straight-to-VHS version of The Lord of the Rings. I knew he didn’t dye his hair or wear a hairpiece, but something about the anger at his temples was giving that illusion. He was wearing the classic black turtleneck and blue jeans pairing that tech guys of the early ‘00s made popular but was sort of passé these days. Across the table were the humans. Charles Ingalls—not to be confused with the pioneer—was IngallsTech’s stocky CEO. He had a receding hairline, crows feet and laugh lines deep enough to qualify his portrait as a topographical map, and a belly that showed he liked beer a little too much. On his right was Patricia Calloway, IngallsTech’s legal council. Buttoned to the nines, prim and proper in every way. Her slicked back black hair pulled in a tight bun at the nape of her neck gave me a headache on her behalf. She was showing teeth. Aggressive. Demanding the fae—always fae, never fairy—were being unreasonable. They were. But this wasn’t the way to say so. Still, I let her rant. A little harsh words to set the stage. I wondered if any of them knew I was letting them dance on the end of my strings. But my fun ended soon. Master Craftsman Dyllam slammed a fist down on the table. Said those magic words: “This is over.” I adjusted my tie and leaned forward, meeting the fae’s piercing gray eyes. They were angry little storm clouds over a sea that was getting increasingly more red by the second. “Master Craftsman, I assure you, our engineers understand the sacred nature of your techniques. What Mr. Ingalls is proposing isn’t replacement, but augmentation.” The humans shifted in their chairs. Charles opened his mouth to speak, but I raised my hand. Just a small gesture that I masked with a casual and smooth transition into adjusting my suit lapel. He caught the signal and stayed quiet. Good man. “The assembly line doesn’t touch the core enchantment process,” I continued, turning a page in the proposal. “It only handles the regular components—the circuit boards, the housing, the basic wiring. Your craftsmen maintain complete control over the magical integration. They will respect your craft, and if they fail to, there will be steep penalties on our end.” Elder Kaelm leaned forward. His hands were spread flat on the mahogany table, drawing attention to the intricate runic tattoos along his fingers. To anyone else they might look like rings. I knew they were power. This was a threat, and not a subtle one. “And the profit sharing?” “Fifteen percent above current rates,” I said, no hedging or hesitating. “With guaranteed minimums regardless of market fluctuations.” The two fae exchanged glances. I’d worked with their clan enough to read their subtle expressions—the slight lift of Dyllam’s eyebrow, the way Kaelm’s pointed ears moved beneath his swept-back salt-and-pepper hair. They were interested. Of course they were. This was a good deal. I’d made it that way. “Show me the exact language,” Dyllam said. I tilted my head. Arched one eyebrow his way. That was a hell of an insult among the fae. “It isn’t that I don’t trust you, of course,” he continued, quickly smoothing over his blunder. “But just as you have heard the tales of our pacts, we have heard the tales of your contracts. And I know what the previous wording was like. This is nothing more than a verification of your words.” I slid the contract across the table, already opened to the relevant section. “Page thirty-seven, paragraph four. I had our legal team use the traditional phrasings from the Autumn Accord of 1987.” Dyllam’s fingers traced the lines of text. His shoulders relaxed as he read. “You recognize the old ways.” “They’re clearer than modern legalese.” I tipped the lawyer a smile and a wink. She’d fought me on that decision. “Fewer loopholes.” Charles cleared his throat. “If I may, the timeline—” I cut him off. No way was I letting Ingalls screw this up this close to the signature line. “The timeline will follow the natural rhythms of the enchantment process. We’ve built in appropriate buffers.” I said it with a smile, one that was warm on the outside, but full of vitriol under the surface. Dyllam steepled his fingers in front of his face, lips resting on the peak. I could see he was looking for the trick. He wouldn’t find it. I was too old for those games. Let younger men try to pull a fairy tale and cheat the fae. I knew better. After a long moment, he nodded. “This is acceptable. Though I question why we weren’t presented with these terms initially.” I glanced at Patricia. She at least had the decently to look embarrassed. Charles took a moment to take over, to remind the room that for all my machinations, he was actually in charge of this deal. “Sometimes enthusiasm for efficiency overshadows proper respect for tradition. But that’s why we brought in Mr. Price to help us correct course.” The meeting wrapped up quickly after that. Handshakes, bows, and formal farewells following all the proper protocols. I got four signatures with no redlines, just like always. Once the fae representatives left, Charles Ingalls slumped in his chair. I expected him to be frustrated over the concessions. The careful dance we’d had to do to make sure he got exactly what he needed to keep his company functioning hadn’t come cheap. But there wasn’t frustration in those tired eyes. He looked at me like I was a damn genius. “You’re a miracle worker,” he said, confirming my read of his expression. He ran a hand through his thinning hair. “When Sam botched the first meeting, I thought we’d lost the whole deal.” “Sam is young,” I said, gathering my papers. “He’ll learn.” “He’d better. Look, I know this is beneath your pay grade—” I waved off his concern. “Happy to help, Charles. Besides, House Kaelm’s work is exceptional. Would’ve been a shame to lose them over a cultural misunderstanding.” “Still. We owe you.” I wanted to remind him that, as long as he paid his bill, we were square. But maybe I’d get a nice little thank you note and a box of chocolates for my trouble. And Sam’s resignation on Charles’s desk by noon tomorrow, securing the firm I worked for a long and cushy contract with IngallsTech. I’d never say it out loud, but that kid almost screwed the pooch. This little social blunder had every way of becoming a Big Damn Deal. Too many contracts have been ruined by just not playing the game, and he needed to learn. Thompson Consulting owed me a lot more than just a token of appreciation. Maybe I’d earn more than a cost-of-living adjustment, finally. Made them enough profit over the years; it was the least they could do. Patricia stood and smoothed her hands down her skirts. Then she crossed the room in a handful of quick, precise strides. “Grant, I can’t thank you enough. That bit about the Autumn Accord… Brilliant.” I smiled and gave a good-ol’-boy shrug. “Sometimes the old ways are the best ways. Especially with the fae. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a date with some paperwork.” Both of them laughed. They always laughed. Everyone gave that same, polite chuckle. They all saw the ghost of a fading tan line on my left-hand ring finger. The way I was always available to help with little blunders like these. How I never had to take PTO for a kid’s dentist appointment or refused to work Saturdays during football season. It was just me and Charley these days. The younger guys all said I was married to my work. They had no idea how true that was. Back in my office, I loosened my tie and looked out over the St. Louis skyline. The Gateway Arch shone in the afternoon sun, its steel surface shimmering, lit with the ambient magic that had filled the city since the Great Integration thirty years ago. A shining beacon for the shit we’d all just had to pretend was normal now. In my lifetime, I’d seen the Berlin Wall crumble, watched the Twin Towers fall, and held my first iPhone. But nothing compared to the day the fae stepped out of legend and onto Wall Street. I was fresh out of business school when fae Houses started buying up Fortune 500 companies. Back then, everyone thought it was the end of human business. Instead, guys like me found a new niche—teaching fae how to file SEC reports and explaining why they couldn’t trade wishes for stocks. Now look at us. Half of my clients couldn’t tell a spreadsheet from a spell book when we started. With my help, they now ran empires that straddled both worlds, and I had the corner office to prove it. My desk held the usual organized chaos of reports and contracts. Nothing and everything in its place, simultaneously. I could reach into any pile blindfolded and pull out exactly what I needed. But don’t ask me to tell you where it is. The calendar—one of those funny word-a-day things with some Gen Z terminology my sister bought me so I could keep up with my nephews—proudly said today’s word was thirsty. For February 14th, the definition felt ironic. Or based, as Jordan would say. Based on what? He’d never explained. Jesus, just thinking it made me feel ten years older. I sat down at my desk to clear my mind with some email cleanup when my eyes caught on the silver frame tucked between my monitors. Talk about thirsty. It was a picture of Jennifer and me at the company Christmas party two years ago. Right before everything fell apart. We don’t look happy. Sure, I’m grinning at the camera, arm around her waist. And she’s smiling too, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. Less than four months later, we were dividing up the china. I picked up the frame. Jennifer looked great for someone pushing 60. Mature in all the right ways, youthful in all the better ones. Some of it was a little nip and tuck, courtesy of the paychecks she hated. Most of it was just good genes. Italians were like that. Even though she wasn’t smiling, her face was still radiant. A gorgeous woman. I’d been so lucky. Unbidden, memories of that night came to me. The band playing tasteful classical renditions of various Christmas songs like they were in Nakatomi Plaza. The taste of eggnog, the way Jennifer had pulled away when I tried to kiss her under the mistletoe. We’d covered it up with laughter. Even though it killed me inside. The writing had been on the wall. Right in front of my face. And I had willfully ignored it for long enough that it grew a fist just to sucker punch me with. A knock at the door pulled me out of my dreary thoughts. I put the frame face down on the desk. Tomorrow I’d pick it back up, remember the good times. Today I didn’t want to look at it. “Come in,” I said, glad to hear my voice didn’t crack. Tim, my assistant, appeared in the doorway. He was a younger guy, maybe late-20s. A good guy. Hell of an assistant. He had sandy brown hair and a boyish face. The kind of guy who didn’t have to shave more than twice a week. “Just checking in. Your workout bag is ready, and I’ve confirmed your reservation at the Foundry Art Centre for tonight’s gala.” I checked my watch—2:45 PM. Plenty of time for a proper workout before the event. “Thanks. Any messages while I was out in the meeting?” “Just the usual client updates. Nothing urgent.” He hesitated. “Should I have the car service pick you up at seven?” “Make it seven-thirty.” I stood, shrugging off my suit jacket and hanging it in the closet. “These things never start on time anyway.” Tim nodded, crossing the room to hand me my bag. “Will you need anything else before you leave?” I shook my head. “No, but thanks. You heading out soon?” “Yes, sir. My daughter has a dance recital tonight.” “Ah, that’s right. Emily, isn’t it? How old is she now?” Tim’s face lit up. “Eight. She’s playing a fairy in ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream.’“ I chuckled. Fitting, given our line of work. “Enjoy the show, Tim. I’ll see you Monday.”