Midsummer Sky

Excerpt

Midsummer Sky
T.J. Land © 2016
All rights reserved

“Ugh, this heat. All ten thousand bellows in Hephaestus’s forge are being worked today.”

“Quiet, fool. You made me miss my shot,” Oberon growled as another arrow fell short of the mark.

Puck pouted and returned his attention to the sky.

The problem was that Oberon had now missed his shot three times in a row, largely because he couldn’t stop looking Puck’s way. His servant was remarkably fetching, perched on the edge of the cliff overlooking their valley, his long legs dangling over the side.

The last few days had been intensely humid—as though Puck needed an excuse to scamper about with practically nothing on—and he was fanning himself with a goose feather while sweat trickled down his back. His only concession to decency was a strip of white silk, pilfered from a lady’s handkerchief on one of his jaunts to the mortal world, now wrapped loosely around his hips. It left most of his lovely arse exposed and concealed just enough of his groin to tantalise the eye.

He had thoroughly ensnared Oberon’s attention for the last half hour.

“Nearly, master,” he called encouragingly as Oberon missed again.

Puck’s ostensible reason for being there was to gather herbs that didn’t grow in the valley below, although his basket now sat abandoned as he took in the view. Oberon’s ostensible reason for joining him was to shoot down a swallow or two, in order to present Titania with fresh feathers to adorn her cape.

That, at least, was the excuse Titania had been kind enough to provide him with, being fully aware her husband very much liked swallow meat, and very much liked having a reason to get away from the court for a few days with his servant at his side. He’d brought his best bow, his best knife, and provisions to last them five days.

However, at the moment, Oberon’s heart wasn’t in hunting. The sky was perfectly blue, and although it was hot, there was a strong breeze blowing up from the valley. What he really wanted was to step off the edge of the cliff and fly up into the open air.

He smirked and thought, If only.

“Master?”

As ever, Puck displayed a remarkable talent for detecting changes in his mood. He’d lowered the feather and gazed up at Oberon with his eyes wide and anxious. His lips were parted—the heat making him pant—and his skin was glossy.

Gloomy thoughts temporarily set aside, Oberon felt his body stir. He rubbed his chin and observed with satisfaction the way Puck’s eyes meandered up his legs. Because most fairies flew as often as they walked, the pronounced musculature of Oberon’s thighs was uncommon, and today, it was on display. This far from court, he’d felt comfortable abandoning all but the essentials: a loincloth cut from a lily pad, affording the bare minimum of modesty, and a necklace of vole teeth, enchanted to keep mosquitoes at bay.

“Yes, my servant?” he replied, deploying the rich purr that always reduced Puck’s witty mind to porridge.

“Um…” Puck faltered. His wings had begun to flutter in excitement, the bright sunlight painting them honey gold and making their intricate patterns shimmer. Oberon felt a flicker of envy, but it passed quickly, an inferno of lust taking its place. He reached for him, only to have light-footed Puck duck to one side and spring to his feet, giggling. Exasperated, Oberon reached a second time, and again Puck slid out of his arms gracefully, provoking a growl. The third time, Puck evaded Oberon’s grasp by leaping into the air, his wings becoming a blur, but Oberon took hold of his ankle with one hand and prepared to tug him back down.

To Oberon’s surprise, however, he found that it was he who was tugged upward, until only his toes touched the ground.

“Your wings are strong,” he admitted grudgingly.

Puck preened. “I take good care of them. Unlike some I could name.”