“I think you’re much more poet and romantic than I, demon.” She turned back to the swans, who were becoming more demanding and beginning to fuss with each other. “Tell them to play nice.”
Lyric looked at the swans. “Play nice.”
The gorgeous creatures immediately broke away from the impending riot and, like a rehearsed ballet, glided into an organization of taking turns while practicing civilized social behavior that would serve as a fine model for humans.
She chuckled. “Seems so odd though. You have the soul,” she looked over at him pointedly, “and body of a lover. You speak like a poet. You are a romantic. You oversee the creation of thousands of songs about love and, yet, say you can’t love.”
Lyric thought back to the last conversation he’d had with Shivaun about the prospect of a bond formed by love. He remembered claiming that he could not, would not, love, but seemed to have forgotten why. Taking in the fantasy environment in which he stood, he marveled at the beatific perfection; and wondered if he’d ever attached feelings to such things before. Good Hades Horns. He might even have said he ‘loved’ what he was seeing.
“What is love?” he blurted.
After a surprisingly lengthy pause, “Funny thing is, before you asked me to define it, I was sure I knew. I guess the way I ‘know’ it isn’t in my head? But I’m stickin’ by what I told you before. One thing about real love? You have to care about what the other person wants and needs as much as you care about what you want and need.”
Returning to the joyful chore of treating swans, Lyric mulled that over and decided that, yes, Shivaun was probably the most glorious creature in all of creation. She’d given him a reason to look forward to the next time they’d spend together because in the course of his day those were the bullet points; the remarkable times of aliveness, maybe even bliss. And he’d give anything to have her as mate.
He liked her. Admired her. Found her companionable, surprising, sexy, and thoughtful. But did he honestly put her wants and needs on equal footing with his own?
She was looking for a yes answer to that question. He was still a decided no when his views were run through the filter of that criterion.
“Have you been in love?” he asked. He strongly suspected the answer to that question was no, but there was always a chance that there’d been some connection, some puppy-eyed thing, with a local elf.
“No’ to speak of.” Shivaun’s mood seemed to have shifted suddenly.
“Odd answer.” She shrugged. “That’s all I’m gonna get?”
“Which swan is your favorite?” she asked, openly dodging the question.
Lyric chuckled. “Okay. Message received.”
He made an effort to let that go, but was bothered. He didn’t know how or why, but he had the distinct sense that she wasn’t being truthful.
The tray of swan treats replenished itself. Every time the demons took some away for the beautiful birds, more appeared. But they’d lingered at the edge of the water feeding swans until the swans were getting full and losing interest.
Lyric tossed the tray up in the air and it disappeared. Smiling at Shivaun, he said, “We don’t want to make them fat.” When she smiled in return, he was relieved to see her good humor restored. “Would you like me to play for you?”
“Play what?”
“Music.”
“Oh,” she laughed. “O’course. Will you sing me a song?”
He shook his head. “No. That I won’t do. At least not now. Maybe someday.”
Lyric climbed to the top of the steps, sat on the divan that originated in Shivaun’s mind, and pulled an acoustic guitar out of the air. He began strumming a series of arpeggios.
She sat next to him and said, “Seems familiar.”
“’House of the Rising Sun’. At least a recent version. It’s an old, old song. The tune dates back to the 1500s.”
“Probably seems like yesterday to you.” She teased.
He grinned and shook his head as he continued to play. “You’re joking, but it doesn’t seem that long ago.”
“Sounds sad. Even without words.”
A ghost of a smile appeared on his face when he said, “And I guess that’s why they call it the blues.”
“Tell me why you’re playin’ a sad thing.”
Lyric continued playing, but looked out at the water. “If you don’t know… I’m sitting here feeling half strangled with fear, wondering if this is the minute you’re going to tell me you’re not seeing more of me. Or will it be a