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muscles and centered
in his groin. Moans leaked from his tight lips, aching for her touch,
to be controlled by his mistress. Though the call spoke of private
pleasures and selfless devotion, he knew this one was not for him. He
only received the call in the privacy of his lady's manor.
    So he watched as from out of the shadows crept a lone man, tall
and armed at his left hip with a sword. They always approached with
cautious steps and plumed hats pulled low. Elegantly dressed in
doublet and thigh-high boots, a chain of ornamental gold hung heavily
about his shoulders—rich, then.
    Fée, the watcher deduced, for their kind betrayed
themselves with their carriage. Ever haughty and slim, unable to sulk
under the oppression Paris pressed down upon all. Regal rogues. Yet
Disenchantment had melted away this one's wings.
    Not mine, the watcher thought. Puppy still has wings.
    The fée ran a glove, palmed in mail, along the carriage
body, inexplicably tracing the fine red line—when a lithe hand
swept out from the window. Flinching as if singed, the fée's
hand recoiled, but as quickly dashed back to clasp the female's
fingers. He bent to inhale the aroma of lemon soaking the fine
kidskin glove.
    The watcher rubbed together his bare fingers. Dry cracks from
squeezing lemons to extract the oil from the slippery rinds tormented
his flesh. Good Puppy.
    One final call. This melody lingered, wrapping its music about the
fée's volition and securing hold.
    As the carriage door creaked open, the watcher hated her. Slipping
a hand into the leather sheath at his hip he drew up a long thin
needle of silver, capped with a smooth, perfect ball of winter-forged
iron.
    Pin man.
    No. I am your puppy, yes?
    Moonlight danced on the pin's tip. Fixing to the thin shimmer of
silver he mesmerized himself, falling into the moment and the
singular admiration of the narrow shine. Anything to avoid thinking
of her...and what absence denied him.
    Moments later the carriage door again creaked open. One long leg
thrust out, followed by a torso and the other leg dragging closely
behind. The fée stumbled, catching himself upon the ground
with his gloves. Mail dashed across the cobbles. The tip of a
steel-capped sabre sheath drew a metallic line in the wake of the
clatter. Curious, the Parisian fée choose metal weapons over
the finer stone instruments. Did the Disenchanted no longer fear the
bite of iron or the burn of steel?
    The watcher pressed his back to the wall and closed his eyes,
clutching the pin near his thigh. Silver, yes, but a strange magic
protected him from its devastating burn.
    The fée managed to right himself, wobbled as if soused,
then sauntered toward the shadows. Boots, spurred and jingling,
trudged closer. A racket of riches announced the fée's
approach. The watcher felt the wind of movement as a gloved hand
smacked the wall near his ear—steadying, grasping a moment to
catch a breath that from this moment on could only be a dying cry.
    The fée passed without notice. Almost.
    The pin held firmly in his palm, the long needle sticking out
between his first and second finger, tugged at fine silk hose and
pierced. The small cry from the fée preceded his jerk to swing
and eye his attacker. He stared at the pin man for but a
second—memorize those strange-colored eyes and smooth silvery
skin dotted with red—then staggered onward.
    Drawing the pin along his torso, one deft twist tilted the point
to his nose. The pin man drew in the scent of the fée's blood,
savoring it as if a bung-cork plucked from the cask of aged
Bordeaux—not so much sweet as sour, and laced with an earthen
origin. Scent of Faery. Had he ever lived there? Yes! But...
when?
    He dashed across the way, and lifting the carriage door open
without making a single creak, entered the dark box. Crawling upon
the carriage floor and coiling his legs up under him, he stretched an
arm along the soft, sensuous damask skirts, feeling beneath all the
frill and lace her thigh, the