Mahogany and Teakwood

Chapter 1: Clematis

i walk a lonely road

the only one that i have ever known

It was quiet in the strange apartment.

Not a mere absence of sound, but a quiet that breathed deep and blanketed the senses like a nighttime pillow. It was a quiet that examined every scuff, every rustle, every soft exhalation with cool curiosity. It listened, with the hush of trees in the night. It watched, with the perilous regard of faeries.

Virgil let the door softly shut behind him and let out a breath, one he'd probably been holding since leaving Ohio two days before. After multiple bus rides across multiple states and hours and hours of strangers, suitcases, and stress, he appreciated the quiet. Despite how it put his paranoid senses on edge, he felt glad to be away from open spaces and curious eyes.

But the apartment was also dark, and a little cold, and its owner was painfully conspicuous by his absence.

The place belonged to a half-faery named Logan Ursae: who, according to the Youngstown Grimms, was someone they trusted to provide pursued changelings a place to run to and start over. Changelings like Virgil.

Virgil, who would much rather be with his Ren Faire troupe back in Ohio.

The reappearance of his old faery master had brought his scarce two years of freedom to an abrupt end. Now he stood in some ordinary human apartment owned by an absent half-blood with a human name, in some middle-of-nowhere city in hot, muggy Florida, a thousand miles from everyone he knew.

Figures, the guy isn't even here when I show up. He tugged his oversized black plaid hoodie tighter around himself. It's not like I'm ever anyone's top priority.

"Uh, hey?" he called, flipping a light switch. "Anyone home?"

Silence.

Virgil rolled his eyes.

Despite his relief at not having to answer questions or make small talk with a stranger, Logan's absence unsettled him. What kind of person supposedly regularly took in changelings on the run, but then couldn't be arsed to be around when they turned up on his doorstep? If Virgil had any other place to go, he'd have turned around and walked out on principle.

Instead, he huffed out a sigh and let his ratty duffle bag slide to the floor.

Logan Ursae's apartment was spacious and clean, making Virgil uncomfortably aware of his own travel-mussed, unwashed state. Hopefully the half-faery wouldn't care if he used the shower...well, if he wanted to lay down rules, he should've been here to do it.

The foyer spilled into a modest living room, with a navy sectional couch and a low coffee table, several standing lamps, a hallway presumably leading to the bedrooms, and the dining space off in its own niche. Heavily-laden bookshelves hid practically every wall in the place, housing an inconceivable number of books—especially to Virgil, who'd lived on the road or on the run his whole life.

A half empty water dish with 'Nic' spelled out in neat cursive sat against the far wall, but he saw no other signs of pets. If Logan did have a dog or something, it was as absent as its owner.

Virgil wandered to the oval dining table, trailing finger pads across classy pale wood and a dark blue runner. A low counter separated a small galley kitchen from the rest of the apartment, with navy towels hanging evenly from the oven handle and galaxy-themed potholders hanging under the cabinets.

The guy clearly had a thing for blue.

Even the curious scent that hung in the air smelled blue to Virgil's changeling-sensitive nose, tickling at his senses in a swirl of color. Subtle, masculine, more middle note than the patchouli oil Virgil himself liked to wear, like dark teal skies and rich bronze bark against a background of earthy brown. He inhaled, imagining that scent against a warm masculine neck, and then wondered where the hell that thought came from.