Miles felt powerful, able to outrun a stag, outfight a bear. Even as he stood there, the winter-stunted grass at his feet grew knee-high and lush, sprinkled with tiny, sweetly scented yellow. white, and purple flowers.
He thought about that poor little potted lavender, once doomed to a short sickly life and abandonment. Miles pictured it now, sitting inside Deedee’s cozy house. Then he threw back his head and laughed, nudging some tiny invisible strand of energy. He knew that Deedee would awake to discover the plant blooming profusely and bursting out of a suddenly too-small container.
Then, with a slightly guilty start, he remembered his companion.
Remy was not burning, despite the sunlight emanating from Miles. In fact, Remy glowed with the cool blue light of a full moon. The transformation of his becoming had begun over a century earlier. The points of his fangs glittered like the thorny tips on his holly crown, his hair was as dark as night, and his eyes glittered like stars.
Tonight was the longest night of the year, the end of the Holly King’s rule. That knowledge filled Miles with such sorrow that he was tempted to give Remy an embrace.
But then he remembered: Remy had turned him away.
“You rejected me!” Miles shouted, each word tearing his throat.
“I didn’t— It wasn’t like that.”
“Every day when I was away at college, I looked forward to coming back home to you. But when I was finally home for good, you turned your back on me.”
“You don’t understand!” Remy was yelling now too, the first time Miles had heard him raise his voice. But instead of shocking or frightening Miles, it made him angrier.
“I understand just fine. I was dumpy little Miles. Good enough for a fuck or two, but not good enough to keep.”
“That was never it! You can’t see, you don’t—” Remy lapsed into a combination of French and some other language. Miles couldn’t comprehend any of it, although the emotion came through well enough: cold white rage to match the burning fury in his own heart.
At some level, Miles realized that his behavior was irrational. What was the point of rehashing a decade-old injury and screaming about it like this? Why wasn’t he allowing Remy to explain? He recognized that his anger was disproportionate to what had been nothing more than a breakup. Miles certainly didn’t feel so furious at Andy, who’d dumped him more recently and just as abruptly.
But those realizations didn’t temper his emotions, and Miles’s new power surged within him, magnifying everything.
With a start, he saw that his hand was raised in a fist, and that Remy’s fangs were bared in a snarl.
Miles turned toward the woods and ran.
The path opened up before him like a red carpet, drawing him farther and farther in. As he raced by, he saw tree boughs wave at him welcomingly; he felt ferns and flowers sprout in his footsteps. Eyes watched from hundreds of furry and feathered faces, but the creatures remained expectantly hushed.
When Miles heard Remy behind him, he picked up speed, moving faster than humanly possible, until the dark forest was nothing but a blur. He didn’t know whether he was running away or leading toward, but he knew where he was going, and he knew Remy would catch up with him there.
Although Miles was still angry, it was mixed in equal measure with joy. It was a delight to rush through the forest at night, to breathe in the scents of fir and earth and all manner of living things. It wasn’t only that this place welcomed him, but that it wanted him, that in some way it was him. He belonged to the forest, and it belonged to him.
He arrived at the clearing where his family harvested their Christmas trees. He’d lost his battered underwear along the way, but that was fine. Clothes would only have constrained him. He stood near the center of the clearing—not even out of breath—and tilted back his antlered head for a look at the clear sky.
Remy arrived moments later, also naked, the holly crown on his head. He was as much a part of this place as was Miles.
But only one man could be king.
Remy crashed into Miles at full speed. That might have knocked Miles over, except he was stockier and had braced himself for the impact. Instead of toppling, he flung his arms around Remy and bore them both to the springy ground.
Miles had never once been in a physical fight. As a young child his strategy had been to curl into a ball and wait for the blows to stop. After he was adopted, he had an entire army of Thorsens at his back, so nobody had dared to attack him. Even when he’d been lost to drugs and alcohol, he’d turned quiet when confronted and, if that wasn’t enough, walked away. None of this came from fear, but rather disinclination. Why start hitting when it was easier just to leave?
Now though, he and Remy wrestled fiercely, each trying to overpower the other—and it felt wonderful. Miles’s muscles strained and bunched and, under his grip, so did Remy’s. Miles no longer had to hold himself back, to take care. He gave up conscious control of his body, much as he gave up control of his hand when painting. It turned out that his muse was a warrior as well as an artist.
Remy grunted and swore in several languages. Miles swore back in only one. Remy’s skin remained deliciously cool under his touch, and the scent of crushed herbs enveloped them like a cloud.
Remy was on all fours, his lithe body taut with strain as Miles pressed tight against his back, an elbow crooked around Remy’s neck and his other arm trapping one of Remy’s legs. Miles began to force Remy’s shoulders down toward the ground—and almost succeeded. But Remy suddenly worked his free leg under Miles’s, loosened the grip, and sent him tumbling back.
Then Remy was on top, pinning Miles’s legs in place with his knees and trying to immobilize his wrists. Remy was patently a predator, with fangs longer and sharper than ever and with a gaze so fierce it would stun most prey. God, he was so strong and so determined. He’d been on his own since he was a boy; he’d crossed the continent long before there were airplanes or even cars; he’d kept himself alive in a disbelieving, suspicious world for a century and a half. Miles almost wanted to surrender to him.
Yet Miles was equally strong. He’d survived a nightmare early childhood and a decade of chemicals and loss, yet here he was. Sober and healthy and home again. He was no predator. He’d never hunted anything in his life, and even swatting flies made him feel vaguely guilty. But tonight?
“I am the Oak King!” Miles roared.
Even as the words left his mouth, he thrust his midsection upward, dislodging Remy, who landed face-down. Before Remy could recover, Miles pounced. He threw himself lengthwise atop Remy and pulled Remy’s wrists behind his back, pinning them between their bodies. Although Remy struggled, he couldn’t free himself. Finally, with one last litany of angry words, he went limp under Miles’s grip.
Miles brought his lips close to Remy’s ear. “I am the Oak King,” he whispered, like a breeze through treetops. And then—in a language he did not speak and which nobody had spoken for centuries—he said, “This part of the year is mine.”
Remy replied in the same tongue. “Only until Midsummer, when I shall regain my rule.”
Miles lightly pressed his lips to Remy’s neck—sealing their pact—and then stood, releasing him.
It took Remy a long minute to stir. When he did, he rose slowly to his feet and stood with shoulders bowed and head hanging. “You’ve bested me, but your indifference hurts more than a killing blow.”