Guardian

Chapter 1-4

“But not the court out of the boy.” John sighed. If Robin, the runaway prince of the Winter Court (who absolutely loathed all courts but especially his own) was saying it, it was definitely true. “So even if he’s an exile like you?”

“Yeah, even then, don’t trust him. This has the stink of shady fae s**t all over it.”

John winced, voicing his worst thought: “Is it possible to keep someone enthralled outside Fairyland?”

“Not in the same way. But there are…agreements,” Robin said quietly. “They can be just as bad.”

“That’s what I was thinking.” Sometimes, it was awful being right.

“Let me handle that Red f**k. He wasn’t even listening to me until I mentioned a number. Then he suddenly handed me a Oh, maybe he could work with you, if…Summer Court fuckers can’t resist the sparkle of coin.”

John nodded, taking a long drink of his so-far-untouched second cocktail. He was going to need a few more of these before the night was over, clearly.

* * * *

“I don’t care how much money he wants, Benny, just give it to him,” Robin said into his phone. He paced the lounge of their rented Manhattan high rise apartment as he talked, like he was trying to wear a hole in the fashionable shag rug. It was the most animated John had seen him in years, off stage. “You’ll have to pay off his label and his manager, yeah. Just do it, seriously. He’s incredible. And we need him as soon as possible. For a week at least. Ten days is better.”

“Well, we can’t let it stand.” Wren threw their sparkle-spandex clad legs over the couch, sprawling. “We have to rescue this Venkat guy.”

John gestured for them to keep quiet while Rob was on the phone with management.

Wren rolled their eyes. “Harper’s gonna say the same thing.”

That was true. John picked up Wren’s feet, lifting their legs high, and slid beneath them to occupy the next seat over. Wren resituated their calves comfortably over his lap.

John sighed. “Don’t get him wound up, please. We don’t even know when Venkat will be able to come to the studio. Or if he will at all.”

Saying it made it more real, and John winced at the sharp pain that stabbed his chest.

Wren snorted. “If his Summer-fucker manager will let him, you mean?”

“I hope he doesn’t have that power.” But John was uncertain. He’d replayed the whole evening in his head over the last two days a million times and it had only made him feel worse, not better. Venkat didn’t seem to like his manager. He’d been enjoying himself with Robin and John at dinner. And yet, his manager had swept in, scooped him up, and had him follow him home like a well-trained if bitter puppy.

It had left Robin with an equally bad taste in his mouth, or John might’ve thought he was exaggerating the memories. Letting his interest in Venkat, be it musical, friendly, possibly even flirtatious, take control and wind him up.

“He said his people were weird about the projects he works on?” Wren asked.

John nodded. “It does sound bad.”

“It sounds gross,” Wren said with their usual, devastating, right-to-the-point sharpness. “What do we do if he’s not allowed, or if they find some excuse to tell us no. Like, we know he wants to do the song with us, right?”

John glanced at his phone. He’d gotten one text from Venkat in the past two days. It just said: I’m definitely in. Having Red call your management. Tell them it’s urgent.

John had immediately texted back with: Done. Heading to NYC today. See you there. And that had been the end of the conversation.

“He wants to do the song,” John said finally.

“I still think it should be the first one on the album, but whatever.” Wren leaned back against the arm of the couch and tucked their arms behind their head. “We can just record the ones we’re sure about first, right? Then knit it together.”

“Yeah.” John smiled. “Remember how we recorded the entire Marketplace album straight through, though? I think that’s why it works so well.”

“No one listens to whole albums anymore,” Wren said with a sigh. “Everyone just puts Spotify on shuffle. It’s tragic.”

“Okay, Benny says he thinks Venkat’s camp is gonna go for it,” Robin interjected, heading for the wet bar in the corner. “Do we have any bourbon?”

“Get me one, please!” Wren said.

“Heard. Mmm, Buffalo Trace.”

“When?” John asked.

“What?”

“When is Venkat free to record?” John clarified. “And for how long? He’ll have to help us write, too.”

“I campaigned for at least a week, said ten days would be better.” Robin began pouring. “Johnny, drink?”

“I’m gonna go for a walk, but thanks.” He stood and stretched. They were just a block from his favorite place in the city. One of the few where he could find himself, when he was feeling lost.

“You gonna make it a whole month in the city?” Robin asked, glancing over his shoulder. Far from mocking, his eyes were full of genuine concern.

John nodded and smiled. It was sweet, when Robin let that side of him show. “We’ve been in the mountains for a while. I stocked up on vibes. Anyhow, Central Park is an oasis.”

* * * *

The walk to the park up 104th was always entertaining for people-watching purposes, but so was anywhere in the city. The first time he’d come here, it’d been when The Rade were still playing small gigs anywhere that would take them, living out of a van like the twenty-something mortals they looked like. John had seen maps of Manhattan before; logically, he’d known that Central Park existed long before he visited the island himself. What he hadn’t expected was for the park to feel so real. Especially at this time of year, when the leaves were brilliant shades of yellow and red or crunchy and brown beneath his feet.

Maybe thinking of concrete, cement, and human-arranged stone as unreal wasn’t fair, but John had never been able to help himself. Even when he’d lived in a house of his own—

He wasn’t sure if he was grateful or not, when someone jogged up beside him and said, “Hey, man, sorry to interrupt your walk…”

John paused. It was a teenager with a couple other kids trailing behind in varying states of embarrassment or excitement. He smiled. “Hey.”

“You’re the guy from The Rade, right? The bass player?”

“Yeah.” John held out a hand. “John. Nice to meet you.”

The kid grinned and took it. “Jesus, you’re way bigger in person.”

“I get that a lot.” John shook with the kid, then with another that came up behind them. “What’s your name?”

“Knox.”

“I’m Dave, this is Helena. Can we get a selfie?” The second kid asked.

“Yeah, come on. Everyone over here.” John held his arms open.

The kids piled into his space, and the one called Helena pulled out a selfie stick—John had thought those were out of fashion now, but then, he was the last person to know about trends. Harper said he was delightfully stuck in the 1970s, but seeing as he was born sometime around the 1500s—he was pretty sure, anyhow—that was still pretty good.

After a million selfies in which John gave his signature peace sign, he wandered off into the park alone, mind blessedly free of whatever he’d been thinking of before. Sometimes people could be exhausting, yeah. But sometimes they were just the thing he needed to cleanse his brain before communing with the natural world for a minute or two.

Or an hour or two. Who was counting?