Read Online Songs_of_the_Satyrs by Aaron J. French - Free Book Online
Authors: Aaron J. French
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would tell the others anyway.
He pushed through the double doors on the Mundane side and stepped down the short corridor. The disgusting creeping sensation of passing through the portal to the Unreal slithered across his body. At the other end he pushed the vine curtain aside and stepped into the grotto.
As he made his way back to the middle he passed Haylee. She was still asleep, and would be until the night ended. They had taken everything they could from her, for tonight. He turned to walk away, then leaned over and pulled a fake fur comforter across her. She was still naked, and he thought she looked cold. Or that’s what he told himself.
By the time Leonides called the night to a close, Marco had screwed two more women. The others had each doubled that. Every night the club attracted almost two hundred couples, drawn by the rumors that exactly what was going on was going on. Nobody went away able to prove anything, but then nobody went away feeling anything but happy—even if they weren’t sure what they were so happy about. The Faerie saw to that, as they saw to the comatose males. Even there, exceptions were not uncommon.
After the clientele—or “donors”—had left and Leo had locked up the Mundane entrances, the grotto dropped fully back into the Unreal and a shudder of relaxation rippled around the whole group. Some made sounds of disappointment, but to Marco it was a relief and a release. For a moment, at least. Leonides called them all to the heart of the grotto. It was time to see how much energy they had collected for the night. They gathered around the oak at the centre of the clearing, and Leo opened the moss-covered panel in the trunk, almost reverentially.
The hopeful anticipation popped like a bubble and was replaced with a group groan. Behind the panel, the collector crystal showed only a little over three quarters full. They had missed quota again.
Almost en masse, hostile eyes turned to find Marco and glare at him. He wanted to protest, to shout out that even if he had doubled his efforts, they still would have been short. But he kept his peace. If he spoke out, offered excuses, it would only make things worse, and it might be the final straw that drove them to violence. He could feel it flowing just below the surface, looking for an excuse to flood outward.
Leo lifted the crystal out of its holder and shut the panel. That was the signal to disperse. Satyrs drifted from the grotto in small groups, muttering to each other and casting glances about, as if looking for Marco. But he was nowhere to be seen. He was not hiding—exactly—but he had found a seat on a couch that happened to be out of the way.
Leo found him. As if on a route he would have taken anyway, he casually passed Marco, just close enough to glare at him before walking off, slowly shaking his head.
“Tough night, huh?”
Marco flinched before he realized the voice belonged to Alphrein, their provider of all things faery, who was looking at him over the back of the couch. Marco wondered what the faery was standing on in order to do that.
Alphrein climbed over and sat at the opposite end of the couch. His legs pointed straight out, and the couch looked like more of a bed for him. Marco nodded, then turned his face away and covered it with his hands as he propped everything up on his knees.
“What’s the problem?” Alphrein asked. “Dey giving you da goils when youse want da guys?”
He laughed at his own humor and his terrible faux-Brooklyn accent. Marco wished he would go away, but when he sneaked a look out the corner of his eye, the faery was still there. He sighed and straightened up.
“There’s no problem. Honest. Just a bad night.”
“One bad night is not what I hear.”
“I can handle it.”
“Sure. That’s why you’re so happy to walk out with the rest of your clan instead of hiding here until they’ve all gone.”
Marco couldn’t find anything to say, and he was starting to feel uncomfortable
He pushed through the double doors on the Mundane side and stepped down the short corridor. The disgusting creeping sensation of passing through the portal to the Unreal slithered across his body. At the other end he pushed the vine curtain aside and stepped into the grotto.
As he made his way back to the middle he passed Haylee. She was still asleep, and would be until the night ended. They had taken everything they could from her, for tonight. He turned to walk away, then leaned over and pulled a fake fur comforter across her. She was still naked, and he thought she looked cold. Or that’s what he told himself.
By the time Leonides called the night to a close, Marco had screwed two more women. The others had each doubled that. Every night the club attracted almost two hundred couples, drawn by the rumors that exactly what was going on was going on. Nobody went away able to prove anything, but then nobody went away feeling anything but happy—even if they weren’t sure what they were so happy about. The Faerie saw to that, as they saw to the comatose males. Even there, exceptions were not uncommon.
After the clientele—or “donors”—had left and Leo had locked up the Mundane entrances, the grotto dropped fully back into the Unreal and a shudder of relaxation rippled around the whole group. Some made sounds of disappointment, but to Marco it was a relief and a release. For a moment, at least. Leonides called them all to the heart of the grotto. It was time to see how much energy they had collected for the night. They gathered around the oak at the centre of the clearing, and Leo opened the moss-covered panel in the trunk, almost reverentially.
The hopeful anticipation popped like a bubble and was replaced with a group groan. Behind the panel, the collector crystal showed only a little over three quarters full. They had missed quota again.
Almost en masse, hostile eyes turned to find Marco and glare at him. He wanted to protest, to shout out that even if he had doubled his efforts, they still would have been short. But he kept his peace. If he spoke out, offered excuses, it would only make things worse, and it might be the final straw that drove them to violence. He could feel it flowing just below the surface, looking for an excuse to flood outward.
Leo lifted the crystal out of its holder and shut the panel. That was the signal to disperse. Satyrs drifted from the grotto in small groups, muttering to each other and casting glances about, as if looking for Marco. But he was nowhere to be seen. He was not hiding—exactly—but he had found a seat on a couch that happened to be out of the way.
Leo found him. As if on a route he would have taken anyway, he casually passed Marco, just close enough to glare at him before walking off, slowly shaking his head.
“Tough night, huh?”
Marco flinched before he realized the voice belonged to Alphrein, their provider of all things faery, who was looking at him over the back of the couch. Marco wondered what the faery was standing on in order to do that.
Alphrein climbed over and sat at the opposite end of the couch. His legs pointed straight out, and the couch looked like more of a bed for him. Marco nodded, then turned his face away and covered it with his hands as he propped everything up on his knees.
“What’s the problem?” Alphrein asked. “Dey giving you da goils when youse want da guys?”
He laughed at his own humor and his terrible faux-Brooklyn accent. Marco wished he would go away, but when he sneaked a look out the corner of his eye, the faery was still there. He sighed and straightened up.
“There’s no problem. Honest. Just a bad night.”
“One bad night is not what I hear.”
“I can handle it.”
“Sure. That’s why you’re so happy to walk out with the rest of your clan instead of hiding here until they’ve all gone.”
Marco couldn’t find anything to say, and he was starting to feel uncomfortable
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