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Kyle was seriously considering turning in his two weeks notice. What the hell was wrong with his manager! It was the third time this week, Kyle had been left alone at the register and he was exhausted.
He barely registered the ring of the bell signaling new customers, too exhausted to even try and put on a “customer-service” face. It wasn’t till he heard a familiar voice ask, “Is everything alright Kyle?” that he looked up.
Blue brown eyes met his, a smile on a delicate face.
Beside him, two hulking male models.
Kyle squirmed.
Kyle remembered fragments of stories.
Stories his gran would tell him of her homeland. Stories filled with wondrous creatures. Of banshees that would herald the death of a noble house. Creatures that could take the form of a horse, only to drag its riders to a watery grave. Of a tribe that could take the form of a great wolf, that protected the land and its people.
But of all these legends, the stories he enjoyed the most were about the Kindly Ones.
The People of the Mound.
Fair Folk.
The Tuatha de Danaan.
Fairies.
Perhaps that should have clued him in. Perhaps that should have been a sign, since most third grade boys were fascinated with things like football and bugs, and Kyle only wanted to learn about fairies. Perhaps he would have been saved the humiliation of being aroused in the middle of a coffee shop by two hulking male models, and a pretty smile.
But Kyle only remembered the stories. Remembered the soothing cadence of his gran’s voice, the way her hand—gnarled by age and arthritis, but still so delicate—would run through his hair.
He remembered listening to her speak of her greatest fear. For it wasn’t the pooka, or bean sidhe, or the kelpie, or even the honest to goodness myths about werewolves that scared his gran. The woman who had survived a world war, drought and famine, who had relocated her family when her husband died and worked long and hard hours to see her family prosper.
Some of his oldest memories of his gran were of how she was always so careful in her little offerings.
How she always took him with her to buy local honey made by a family in Beacon County. How this honey was always reserved for the fairies. His dad would often bemoan gran’s supertitions—especially when he had to content himself with the cheap store honey. But gran would not be moved.
The honey was an offering, and you should never partake in an offering.
After all, it wasn’t a sacrifice if it wasn't something precious.
And to an Irish immigrant who had worked hard jobs her entire life to support her three children, organic honey from the farmers market was a luxury.
His grandmother had taught him all she knew. How to make little honey cakes that smelled of summer. The way to mix honey and cream. A prayer of protection, and one of invitation.
That iron scissors hung over a window, salt sprinkled across a doorway, Rowan branches tied in red thread, would protect him from those that would wish him harm.
The sterling silver locket he had gotten when she had died, filled with herbs that smelled like vanilla and coconut, tied together in red thread, a four leaf clover collected on a Midsummer’s eve carefully preserved behind glass.
He remembered the stories.
And as blue brown eyes looked at him from an ethereally beautiful face, burly companions standing like sentinels…he squirmed.
He remembered the stories.
Wenyn was everything he had expected a fairy to be and more.
The first thing Kyle had noticed was that Wenyn didn’t seem to care for the line between gender. If he liked something, he wore it plain and simple. Which was why it was always a fifty-fifty chance that Wenyn’s outfit of the day would be more masculine or feminine.
The first time Kyle had seen him in a skirt, he’d had to run in the back and will his growing problem down for ten minutes before he could go back. Wenyn had smiled, as if nothing was unusual. But both Coinneach and Eoghan had stared at him, as though they knew something.
The second thing that he had noticed about the other, was that Wenyn seemed to have an aversion to shoes. No matter the weather, the other’s delicate, birdlike feet were always bare. Pale like the rest of him, and seemingly immune to the dirt and rubbish that littered the streets.
Both Coinneach and Eoghan seemed to find their partner’s naked feet a personal affront, as they would grumble about them everytime they sat down. Though Kyle noticed that they always cradled them in their lap, hands warming the fragile limbs and thumbs working into delicate arches. Wenyn simply smiled.
The third thing Kyle noticed, was that he was quiet.
Wenyn’s voice was soft, lilting in the way he thought his gran might have once spoken. His voice was always just above the level of a whisper, though Kyle never had an issue hearing him. And when the other boy laughed, it was like tinkling bells, sending pleasant chills running down his spine and his ears to turn red, and Kyle always had to duck his head. Afraid that the other would see the brilliant blush making his freckles bleed together.
Coinneach had noticed of course, and did everything in his power to make Wenyn laugh—almost as if he enjoyed the way Kyle turned into a freckly tomato every single time the fairy-boy laughed. Kyle was quickly learning that for all his growly height and stature, the redhead was a goofball.
But what he always noticed was that Wenyn would order a vanilla steamer sweetened with honey, and a plain scone.
And memories of his gran’s stories grew.
Beacon Brews was a relatively new shop to the downtown business community. It had opened a little over a year ago, having replaced a failed sandwich shop, that had replaced a har salon, that had replaced a law office owned by the Hale family before the fire.
Some had whispered that the building was cursed. That a pack of vengeful Hales had sworn vengeance from beyond the grave on any who would dare profit from their demise.
Kyle didn’t really believe in curses. The hair salon had charged a fortune and copied hairstyles from the 80s. The sandwich shop had sold hoagies that were waaayy past their expiration date.
That didn’t stop him from trembling the first time he saw Peter Hale walk into his shop.
As was becoming the norm, Kyle’s manager had stuck him on the counter after two of his coworkers had called off with a case of the flu. Although checking the girls’ social media hinted that they were simply hungover from a night of partying, leaving Kyle to once again cover for them.
He really should find out if the bookshop was hiring.
But back to the problem at hand.
Peter Hale was in his shop! Looking around with a faint hint of shock and displeasure, noting the espresso machine—Bob—which had just that morning burned Kyle in his attempt at steaming some milk; and the multiple canisters of organic handcrafted and ethically sourced coffee, and the glass counter filled with confections and sandwiches.
Despite being a good two inches taller than the man, standing at 6’0 even, Kyle couldn’t help but feel as if he was little more than a kid staring up at an intimidating adult. Peter just had that air about him.
“Um…how can I uh…how can I help you sir?” Kyle stammered.
Hale regarded him for a moment, blue eyes discerning, and neatly trimmed goatee looking more and more like the edge of a knife. Kyle may or may not have trembled behind the counter.
Finally, the older man smirked. “I’ll take a large caramel macchiato, with a shot and dusted in cinnamon. With a large coffee, with almond milk.” A glance at the case next to him had the smirk widening. “And a black and white cookie.”
After naming his total, Kyle got to work on getting those done. Not wanting the other to be in his shop any longer than necessary. Five minutes—which felt like the longest five minutes of his entire life—later, and Peter was walking out of Beacon Brews. A spring in his step, and coffee held carefully in his hand as he crossed the street over towards the Sheriff’s Station.
Maybe the place really was cursed.
Stiles Stilinski was somewhat infamous to the Beacon Hills Business and Commerce Community, but not for the reasons you might think.
It wasn’t because he was a walking disaster waiting to happen, or his status as the Sheriff’s kid.
It wasn’t even that Stiles seemed to know everything about everyone.
It was his preternatural sense about where his dad was trying to sneak food that was clearly not in his dietary plan, that had made him somewhat of a legend to the business that inhabited Beacon Hills.
Which was why it wasn’t too surprising that he’d ferreted out the fact that his dad had been oddly gleeful for the last three weeks, stopping at Beacon Brews every other day and leaving as though he was carrying contraband instead of two drinks and a cookie.
So it was to a gangly, mole-speckled teen with whiskey eyes glaring and mouth thinned, that greeted Kyle’s first five minutes on the clock. “Look here buster”, Stiles sniped, bony finger going up to point at Kyle, “I don’t know what that old man thinks he can get away with but he knows that he’d not allowed to have coffee after 11, and he definitely knows that he’s not allowed any sweets! They’ll clog his arteries, and his heart is already a ticking time-bomb what with the high stress job, and the werewo—er—-animal attacks, and the—“
Jackosn cut Stiles off, arms wrapping around the other boy’s waist and Kyle had to fight his urge to frown. Did everyone have a boyfriend except him? A memory of a pretty smile, and a bellowing laugh, followed by a fond eye roll filled his head, before he quickly shook them off.
Now wasn’t the time or the place. “Babe,” Jackson soothed, thumbs working gentle circles into Stiles hips, “breathe.” The other teen breathed, soothed by his boyfriend’s presence and Kyle felt a pang of longing, though for what the didn’t know.
“Look, I just,” Stiles sighed, hand going up to run over his buzz cut, “it’s hard and I know that he doesn’t like his diet but he needs to keep at it or he won’t bring down his cholesterol and…” he trailed off.
Kyle waited a minute, just to be sure that the other was done and wasn’t likely to interrupt before he leaned in. “I know. Mr. Hale has left very firm instructions on what Sheriff Stilnski is allowed to have.”
Jackson seemed to be holding back laughter, even as Stiles gaped at him. “What?!”
Nodding, Kyle grabbed the laminated sheet he kept under the counter, handing it off to Stiles’ grabby hands.
He scanned the contents, amber eyes flashing, lips silently mouthing along with the instructions that Peter had left. “But, but the cups! And, and he always looks so smug! And the cookie!”
Kyle nodded. “The Sheriff orders a large coffee with vanilla syrup and half-and-half with a black and white cookie. But we change it to decaf with almond milk and sugar free syrup. The cookie is made with almond flower and stevia.”
Jackson was definitely laughing. “And he doesn’t notice?” Stiles asked incredulously.
Kyle smiled, shaking his head, dark curls bouncing at the movement. “Nah, we’re real careful to make sure he thinks he’s getting exactly what he ordered.”
Peter Hale paid Kyle $50 a week to make sure that the Sheriff was only getting the diet approved treats, and well, who was Kyle to turn down an extra 50 bucks?
Stiles continue to stand there, gaping at him like a fish while his boyfriend chuckled fondly into the teen’s bony shoulder. After a moment, the other teen shook off his amazement and smiled. “In that case, I’d like an extra, extra large coffee with caramel syrup and Jackass here will have a blonde americano with soy milk and whip cream!”
He elbowed his still laughing boyfriend in the gut. “Pay the man, Jax.”
With a grin, Jackson paid, leaving a $10 in the tip jar.
For all that they were only a couple of inches taller than him, Kyle couldn’t help but feel impossibly small next to Wenyn’s two boyfriends.
Coinneach was this walking mountain of muscle who easily looked like he had stepped out of a Game of Throne’s episode, Henley and jeans giving off sexy-lumberjack vibes that Kyle didn’t even know he had a thing for.
Eoghan in contrast, was all smooth sophistication. Casually elegant in his leather jacket, and Kyle didn’t know where the man bought his clothes with shoulders that broad but daaamnnn did he know how to fill them out.
For all that they acted as though they couldn’t stand the other, Kyle was able to see the love and care they devoted to their third. The way one would always be in careful contact as the other procured food, or seating. How they’d trade off who was holding the tiny fairy-boy, keeping him warm and coercing him to take small bites of whatever it was they had ordered that particular day.
Kyle had noticed that Wenyn seemed to do poorly in cold weather, pale fingers nearly blue and toes so white they reminded him of bone. His manager always bemoaned how the thermostat seemed to be up a couple of degrees, complaining about gas and electricity bills, but Kyle never gave anything away.
And Coinneach and Eoghan regarded him, expressions thoughtful.
Isaac Lahey would always remind him of a puppy.
Maybe it was the blonde curls and big blue eyes, or maybe it was the way the other seemed to bounce around, or maybe it was just his general demeanor. But either way, he had and always would, remind Kyle of a puppy.
The day the other teen had bounced in, curled around Stiles’ arm with Jackson smiling softly behind them, Kyle wondered at their relationship. Wondered at the way the blonde boy acted around the couple, the way he had happily thrown his legs over Stiles, who was perched comfortably in his boyfriend’s lap.
Wondered at the way Stiles and Jackson smiled at him, soft and so incredibly sweet, but not in the way he had seen Coinneach or Eoghan smile at Wenyn.
Or in the way that Peter and Sheriff Stilinski smiled at eachother.
It was as Kyle dropped off a refill, that he heard Isaac whisper quietly, “Thank you momma.”
And Stiles just as quiet response, “Of course pup.”
After that, Kyle didn’t wonder quite as much.
It seemed that he wasn’t the only one who thought Isaac resembled a puppy.
Kyles stared into dark eyes, at a loss.
Danny tolerated his confused expression, hands calming resting on the countertop. Kyle blinked. “You want to know,” he began, voice unsure, “what Isaac orders?”
The other boy nodded.
This just caused Kyle’s confusion to grow. “But…why?” What on earth would knowing Isaac’s drink order do? And why the heck would Danny want to know?
For the first time ever, Kyle was able to witness the usually calm and confident boy blush. Cheeks growing darker, and hand coming to rub at the back of his neck. “Look,” Danny sighed, “I think Isaac is super cute, but I don’t know if he’s” Danny did a complicated gesture with his hand, letting his wrist hang loose and Kyle’s comprehension grew, “you know? And with Jackson and Stiles hovering like overprotective parents, I don’t want to just go up and ask him out, you know? So…” Danny trailed off, and Kyle understood.
“Hot chocolate.”
Brown eyes met his. “What?”
“Hot chocolate.” Kyle repeated. “He always gets hot chocolate, with some cinnamon and cloves sprinkled in, with a snickerdoodle cookie.”
“That’s adorable.” Danny breathed, and Kyle couldn’t argue. He thought it was just as adorable that the boy that was easily 6’2 only ever ordered hot chocolate and a cookie.
Danny grabbed his wallet.
The next time Isaac came, once again bouncing beside Stiles as Jackson looked on indulgently, Kyle got to see the blonde puppy blush brightly at the cup of hot chocolate that was waiting for him.
“From a secret admirer.” Kyle said.
Isaac blushed brighter, though he looked happy.
Jackson was smirking, as if he knew something.
Stiles was gushing about his baby growing up.
And later that day, Kyle got a text from Danny with a thumbs up.
“I did not know that you wore glasses.” A quiet voice said.
Kyle looked up, thick frames sliding down and with an annoyed huff he slipped them back up. Wenyn was standing there, hair gathered in a loose braid he thought was probably called a fishtail, looking adorable in denim overalls and a black and white sweater. The legs were cuffed, exposing bony ankles and naked feet.
He looked exactly what Kyle thought a sprite might look like, and he felt like a mess in comparison. “Uh, yeah,” Kyle began awkwardly, unconsciously pushing his glasses back up his nose. “I uh, forgot to put my contacts in.” He’d woken up late that morning, gulping down too hot coffee with a slice of toast, before he had ran out the door hoping to catch his bus.
His hair, which was a mess on the best of days, was a verifiable rats nest. The rain wasn’t doing him any favors, humidity making the curls fluff up like a cue-tip and giving him an extra two inches in height just from how much volume his hair had gotten. He was pretty sure he still had a spot of toothpaste on his face from where he’d tried to get rid of a pimple, and his shirt was on backwards.
The thick frames, with their coke-bottle lenses, were just the icing on what was sure to be a shitty day. He’d hope that his favorite customers wouldn’t be in that day, although unlikely as they seemed to be in nearly everyday, so that they wouldn’t have to see what a mess he was.
Eoghan and Coinneach were their usual, handsome selves. The Scot in an uncharacteristically bright sweater that he made look good, but Kyle was sure would look a hot mess on anyone else. A complicated pattern of different colored yarns all twisted together into several different designs, wool somehow accommodating his muscular frame. Eoghan had opted for a pale cream sweater, muted cables climbing across his broad chest, a checkered collar peeking out at the neck.
All three regarded him, and Kyle fought not to fidget. Wenyn smiled up at him sweetly. “They suit you.” He said quietly, making Kyle’s ears burn.
He ducked his head, putting in their usual orders, and completing missing the admiring look shot his way by the two hulking figures behind Wenyn’s slight frame.
If Kyle decided to wear his glasses more after that, well, it was only because contacts were so expensive.
It definitely didn’t have anything to do with the bright smile he always got from the fey-like boy, or the head nods he received from the the Scot and Brit.
Definitely not.
He blushed, even as he grabbed his glasses.
Lydia Martin was a bitch.
That was all Kyle could think as she came over and tried to hit first on Eoghan—who turned away with a dismissive flick of his eyes—and then at Coinneach, who was currently holding Wenyn in his lap.
Wenyn, who looked on in confusion, pretty blue brown eyes squinted and petal pink mouth agape as Lydia leaned lasciviously over to give the Scot a good look at her décolleté. “So, I was wondering if you’d like to meet up later.” She began huskily, apple red nails running over the man’s muscly forearm and, well, Kyle didn’t know what came over him.
Didn’t know where this protective rage came from. Why he was so angry that Lydia was doing what Lydia always did. She always flirted with good looking guys, and well, Eoghan and Coinneach were damn good looking and had definitely caught the female population of Beacon Hill’s attention, not to mention quite a few men’s, but they always backed off when they caught sight of Wenyn.
Wenyn, who was so sweet and kind, who was quite possibly a fairy with his tinkling laugh and disregard for gender norms. Wenyn who was sitting right there in his boyfriend’s lap, as some bitch tried to hit on him.
Kyle had no idea what came over him. One moment he was behind the counter. The next, he had “accidentally” spilled a scalding hot latte all over Lydia’s silk blouse. “Oh, I’m so sorry!” Kyle said, hands fluttering mock-nervously. “Here let me help you!” His hands “accidentally” smacked Lydia in the face with all the fluttering, as he attempted to “blot” the coffee with an old rag he had used to clean the floors that morning, only to press the stain in further.
Lydia screamed. “You moron! This is dryclean only! Stop! Stop!” She smacked his hands away, leaving in a huff.
The write-up he received was worth it, especially at the grateful look Coinneach and Eoghan both sent him, Wenyn’s sweet smile icing on the cake.
“Bob, you piece of shit, you are going to work! Why-won’t-you-just-take-the-group-head!” Kyle growled, fighting with the ornery espresso machine, only to hiss as he got scalded with hot water.
Blinking back frustrated tears even as he hopped in place, he never noticed the other making his way behind the counter until a large hand carefully guided him away.
Kyle stared, incomprehensibly as the redhead effortlessly fitted the group back in, portafilter comping up next and making a cup of espresso with much less difficulty.
“Come on.” A familiar voice said, and Kyle was definitely in shock as Eoghan guided him towards the threesome’s usual couch, large hands warm where they rested on Kyle’s shoulders.
Wenyn was frowning, mouth set with worry and Kyle had to fight the desire to soothe him. He was sat down beside the tiny boy, Eoghan’s muscly frame taking residence on his other side and from here Kyle could smell the vaguely familiar vanilla coconut scent, followed by a sharp pine smell that must have been the blond’s cologne.
He took a greedy breath.
Cold fingers carefully touched his hand. Wenyn was still frowning, before he took out a small tin from his bag. Applying an unknown mixture, a pale yellow color, fingers tracing delicately over the burn, Kyle coudn’t believe the instant relief that came over him.
It was like his hand was magically better, though he let the boy cradle his hand in two small ones for a moment longer. “There.” Wenyn said, smile once again taking over his face.
Kyle’s heart skipped a beat.
And Coinneach and Eoghan smiled.
“So, Ovates.” Stiles whispered, although that might have been too generous, as Kyle was able to hear him rather clearly from where he was cleaning a window.
Wenyn nodded.
Once a week, Stiles would come with Jackson and Issac, order a few drinks and several cookies, before going over and sitting on the couch opposite Kyle’s favorite trio. Every now and then, Peter would join them, taking residence on the arm and affectionately ruffling Stiles’ hair. Danny had also become a regular fixture, smile bright as he held Isaac’s hand.
They’d greet the trio, Eoghan and Coinneach their usual quiet selves and Wenyn and Stiles would chat for a good few hours, before the other teens would leave.
Kyle didn’t really know what they talked about, only that they seemed to talk a lot.
Last week, Stiles had been complaining about how cold he had been lately, and Jackson had nodded, as if to confirm the other boy’s chill.
Wenyn had explained something about a spark being ignited, consuming any and all energy in its path, leaving very little behind for the host and Eoghan and Coinneach had provided ideas to Jackson and Issac on how to keep Stiles warm and fed.
It didn’t make any sense, but Stiles had acted like he had understood.
“There are three classes of orders.” Wenyn began, voice a gentle hum that had Kyle relaxing even as he strained to listen. “The Druids, which you know,” Stiles nodded even as Peter scoffed in distaste, “the Bards, and the Ovates.”
Whiskey eyes looked on in wonder, and Kyle couldn’t help but feel a little protective at the way Stiles was staring at Wenyn. “What is the difference then? Between all three?”
“Druids are teachers, their skill lying in philosophy, counseling, and judicial matters. It is the reason that they typically serve as emissaries.” Stiles nodded, even as Jackson rolled his eyes. “Bards are keepers, the custodians of Word.”
“What does that mean?”
Eoghan answered. “The ancient Celts didn’t have a written language—at least not one that was commonly known. They believed that only the gods could create something that was meant to last forever the way something written down could. So knowledge was passed down orally.”
Wenyn smiled up at the blond. “Exactly. So Bards are trained to recall our sacred texts, their Words a source of power, opening doorways to other realms, leaving magic in their wake.”
“And Ovates?”
“Ovates are healers and seers. They serve as a sort of intermediary between the Other and the Mundane. Ovates are trained to heal, to nurture and grow just as they are taught to look through the past and the portents of the future. How to listen to the whispers of the innermost groves and see the shades of those long-dead, and interpret their meaning.”
Kyle didn’t know what they were talking about, only that Stiles seemed to get more excited at every bit of knowledge he received.
And Wenyn smiled, curled up against Coinneach and Eoghan, and Kyle wished…
He stared at the locket.
He knew why that vanilla coconut smell that seemed to follow Wenyn was so familiar. Why he thought he knew it.
It was the same smell as the bundle of herbs in his grandmothers’ locket, tied carefully in red thread.
Gorse.
Kyle fidgeted, wondering if this was the right thing to do.
He had pulled out his gran’s recipe for the honey cakes she would always make as an offering. Had gone to the farmer’s market for the first time in years and dropped $15 on a jar of organic honey from the same stall his gran always used.
Had given a prayer of protection and invitation, as he carefully mixed the ingredients.
Now Kyle used the same honey in Wenyn’s drink, before tucking it back away in his apron pocket. He stacked everything carefully, homemade cakes looking wonky and misshapen, and he hoped that it didn’t offend the others. He swallowed.
Wenyn smiled up at him, so incredibly beautiful in a soft blue dress with a puffy skirt, hair a pale cloud about his delicate face that was still gorgeous despite the wicked scar about his throat.
Both Coinneach and Eoghan were dressed in similar shades of blue, handsome as usual and the Scot seemed to be particularly excited about something, wiggling in his seat. Eoghan rolled his eyes, though he kept fidgeting with his cuffs, the only outward sign he was similarly affected.
“Hello Kyle.” Wenyn greeted, uncharacteristically seated by himself, his boyfriends on either side of him. Blue brown eyes widened at the tiny cakes.
“I, uh, I know what you are.” Kyle stuttered out, glasses slipping down his nose.
There was an uncomfortable stillness which settled over them. “Your skin is pale white, and ice cold.” He said, not meeting Wenyn’s gaze. “You, uh, you speak like you’re uh, from a different time.” Kyle swallowed. “You two are impossibly fast and strong, and I swear I’ve seen your eyes change color.” Kyle nodded towards where Coinneach and Eoghan were sitting.
He couldn’t believe he was going to say this out loud.
Their silence spoke volumes.
“You’re fairies.”
There was a pause.
Then a loud guffaw broke the moment, and Kyle glanced up to see Coinneach laughing, as Eoghan quietly chuckled. Wenyn’s smile had softened. A pale hand pulled him down, and Kyle found himself sitting down amongst the trio.
“Let us explain.” Wenyn said.
And all Kyle could do was nod.
Werewolves were a thing apparently.
As were werelizard things, resurrected werewolves, druids, emissaries, and oh year, werewolf hunters.
Wenyn wasn’t a fairy, but an Arch-Druid that was alive before the Roman Occupation of the British Isles. Coinneach was a Pictish warrior that had been bitten by a werecreature, and Eoghan was a Briganti prince that had been turned during a battle with a neighboring clan.
They’d been together for over a thousand years.
But that wasn’t the most shocking thing, if you could believe it.
No, the most shocking thing was that the recipe his gran had used as an offering was an ancient Celtic courting gift that young men would make when they wished to court another.
The most shocking thing was when Wenyn had smiled and took a dainty bite of one of the cakes, sharing the second and third with Coinneach and Eoghan, who smiled at Kyle.
The most shocking thing was when a delicate weight was deposited on Kyle’s lap, vanilla-coconut scent filling his lungs, a shy kiss placed on his cheek as two different arms wrapped themselves around his shoulders.
The most shocking thing was that they had accepted. That Kyle was happy.
“You what?” Kyle asked his three boyfriends, only to be placated with Wenyn’s soft kiss and Eoghan’s gentle scenting. Coinneach huffed. “Yer manager is a right piece of shite! What did ya ‘spect we’d do?”
Kyle only shook his head. He couldn’t believe they’d bought Beacon Brews, only to fire his manager and make Kyle in charge.
Still, with Wenyn sitting in his lap, two hulking were creatures on either side of him, he couldn’t really find it in himself to complain.
From that point on, Beacon Brews quickly became a supernatural hub in town. Were packs were common, including other mystical beings that had called the preserve home for generations.
The first time he had met a fairy, he very nearly fainted, only Coinneach’s firm grip on his waist keeping him upright.
The Scot had quickly established himself as a competent barista, effortlessly operating Bob to create flawless cappuccinos and lattes, with a grace that was belied by his mountainous frame.
Eoghan had taken over the finances of the store completely, grumbling about incompetent managers and money-hungry suppliers.
Wenyn sold natural remedies and charms, and held court with Stiles, teaching him everything he needed to know to keep his pack safe.
And Kyle couldn’t believe that this was his life. That these three beautiful, incredible, amazing men were his.
That his gran’s prediction had come true.
An old, glared hand cradled his. A silver locket held between them.
A litling voice, soft with age, whispered. “This locket, will bring you luck me wee lad.”
“How gran?” A high-pitched voice asked, filled with wonder.
His gran chuckled. “See this,” she opened up the locket, “a clover, for luck.” She winked, making him giggle. “Red thread tied thrice, for protection, and gorse.”
“What’s that?” A tiny Kyle asked, brown eyes wide behind his glasses as he bounced in place, curls flying. His gran smiled. “It’s a herb, a herb of protection, but love too.” She closed it, putting it around his neck.
“This brought yer grandfather ta me, and kept me safe throughout the war.” She patted it where it rested against his chest. “It’ll protect you.” She winked again. “And ya never know, maybe it will bring you love too.”
Kyle wrinkled his nose. “Gran no! Ew! Girls are gross!” He whined. His gran only laughed.
There Kyle was, just trying to mind his own business and get through what was most likely going to be an awful shift only to be attacked by a golden fur ball!
Isaac grinned at him. “Danny asked me to Winter Formal!” He screeched.
Kyle sighed, even as Coinneach laughed at him.
Isaac really was a puppy. He thought.