Salt Magic, Skin Magic

by Lee Welch

  “—because Stewart needs to take a cure. All this land in Scotland and Ireland must be worth something, so we can get funds from selling that, and—” He realised John was watching him and smiled, that shy smile that surprised John anew every time he saw it. “Feeling better?”

  “Are you sure he’s dead?”

  Soren’s smile vanished. He looked at the tablecloth. “Yes.”

  There was so much in that single syllable: relief, hate, defiance, sorrow, resignation, regret. What did one say? I’m sorry? I’m glad? Eventually, John said, “This land in Scotland, these skerries, I think, if you go there, you’ll find the locals have orders not to shoot seals.”

  “Of course they’ll be under orders,” Soren said bitterly. “He wanted one alive.”

  “He talked to me, on the shore. She chose him, you know. She came out of the sea to him. They hatched the idea of saying she was Danish together, from the sound of it. I know it went bad, but they were happy once. They loved each other.”

  “I should forgive him, should I? You know why he burnt me, all those years ago? Have you worked it out? I was bait. He was trying to make them come for me.” Soren closed his eyes. “Do you have any idea what that burn did to me? He lamed me. At school I—” He put his face in his hands for a moment.

  John sighed. “I’m not excusing him. It was unforgivable. But I thought you should know about him and her. Forget it, then.”

  John stroked the glass, trying to let it fill his consciousness. He felt, in a way, worse than he had in the lock-up, because now hope kept clutching at his belly, and he could see what he had to lose sitting opposite, even more beautiful than in his imagination, grey eyes defensive, mouth tense and unhappy, slender fingers knotted together, fingernails bitten short. The desire to hold him and never let go was so strong John closed his eyes. Perhaps he should leave. Now. Before things went any further. It could only end badly. He tried to imagine himself standing up, opening the door, walking away.

  Soren said in a small voice; “John? Sorry. Thank you.”

  “Once you’ve sorted everything out at Raskelf, you could go to one of these skerries. It’s probably the safest place.”

  Soren looked up quickly. “Oh, but—but, Scotland’s a long way from London.”

  “You’ll go back to London? Will you do what you said in the box room? Put the skin in a bank and never touch it again?”

  “No! I shan’t do that. That was before I knew.” Soren got to his feet, face transforming with wonder, and began to pace back and forth. “Being at sea! It’s the best thing in the world!” He smiled suddenly, glanced meaningfully at John, and added archly, “With a few exceptions. It’s like those dreams where you can fly! My God, it’s like being in a Turner painting! And I belong there!”

  He shook his head a little, like a man who can’t believe his good fortune.

  “Yes. You belong there.”

  “Don’t look like that. I belong on land too, surely? Father was human.”

  John schooled his face. It was difficult, because he wanted Soren so much, he felt it would choke him. He wanted to say something noble and understanding that would let him walk away with his self-respect intact. Because otherwise he’d end up begging Soren not to go to sea again.

  “You swam away,” he heard himself saying. And it wasn’t dignified; it was raw with pain. At least he wasn’t on his knees, pleading.

  Soren crouched by his chair, holding onto the edge of the table with one hand, looking up into his face.

  “John, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to desert you, but that skin had been waiting for the sea since the day I was born. I had to put it on. I know I shouldn’t have ridden away, and I’ll beg your pardon a hundred times for that if you like. But there was magic at work. It was telling me not to wait, not to risk it. It wasn’t reasonable, I know, but then magic isn’t always, is it? You know that. And then, when I was a seal—I wasn’t just myself in a different shape. All this—” He gestured at his body. “I forgot it. It felt like a dream.”

  “All right.” John had control of himself again. He managed a smile. “Tell me some more. Did you catch any fish? Did you eat them alive?”

  Soren leaned in to kiss him. He did it tenderly, almost apologetically, as if John might refuse him.

  He might as well refuse to breathe.

  Soren removed his tarred jacket, shirt and boots. He sat astride John in the patched canvas trousers. John ran a hand over his chest. No cuts, not a trace. He could see, too, that Soren’s once scarred foot was now a perfect graceful arch like its fellow. Wasn’t that the way with toffs like Soren? They always managed to come out of things unscathed. John’s own chest hurt like hell where the shot had hit him and Dalton had kicked him, and his face and shoulders were a mess of cuts and bruises from the slates. He touched the curve of Soren’s brow, the line of his jaw. No marks there, either, not the shadow of a bruise.

  “Where did you learn to fight like that?” John said.

  “I went to Eton, silly. And I had a bad foot and couldn’t run away.” Soren began undoing the buttons of John’s waistcoat. “Hadn’t you better get the pins out?”

  “In a minute.”

  He closed his eyes and let Soren do what he liked. Let him kiss his mouth and neck. Let him untie his cravat and unbutton his shirt and fly. Let him nibble the sensitive skin around his ear. Let him grind against him, breath quickening.

  The chair creaked warningly. It was right. John opened his eyes. “Get off. And get those awful trousers off too. And wait for me by the fire. I’m going to fuck you in a minute, and I don’t much care if Mr Howarth’s windows melt, so I’m going to do exactly what I want, exactly how I want it. And you are going to take it. Understand?”

  All the same, he took the pins and emptied himself of power. Who knew what would happen in the morning? But if he was going to have one more night with Soren, he was damn well going to be warm and comfortable, without a sea wind blowing through the bedroom. Raskelf had been an ice box. He wanted to see Soren sweat. Wanted him flushed and trembling, slippery and pliant. If Soren was going to vanish into the sea again tomorrow, then tonight would have to warm John for a long, long time.

  Soren had stoked the fire, and was now waiting on the hearthrug, naked, as he’d been told. He stood hip-shot, smiling, cock plump, hands behind his back. “Have you considered, Mr Blake, that you’re about to fuck the tenth Marquess of Dalton?” He raised an eyebrow. “What do you say to that?”

  A week ago, the idea of having a marquess would have inflamed John beyond imagining. Now, he wanted only Soren. John glowered at him, deciding, and had the satisfaction of watching his smile fade, watching him swallow nervously. Soren needed wrong-footing, that was what he needed.

  He stood in front of Soren a moment or two longer, just looking, and letting him look. Then he said, “Right. You undid my buttons. Now you can do them back up. And then you can tie my cravat.”

  Soren’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, then down in puzzlement. “But—”

  “Do it.”

  “But you—”

  “Maybe I’ve changed my mind. Maybe I feel like going out. Do it.”

  Soren bit his lip, and began to do up the buttons of John’s shirt, then his waistcoat. John glanced down and saw his cock had softened. Did Soren really think he was going to go out? Hm. Maybe he really did.

  “Stand still.” He knelt and took Soren’s cock in his mouth. Soren gripped his hair, gasping. John sucked him until he was groaning and thrusting his hips forward, then stood up again. Soren’s eyes were black, his mouth open, face flushed.

  “All right. Now you can tie my cravat. Not too tight. You know how I like it.” John made him do it twice. Soren’s hands were trembling. His eyes had that pleading look. Desperate to come, not sure if it was going to happen. Perfect.

  John checked his cuff-links, then unbuttoned the fly he’d just made Soren do up. He pulled aside the linen of his drawers and let his cock stand proud. It curved up, engorged
, swelling with veins, shocking against the respectability of his good wool trousers and waistcoat.

  Soren was already kneeling, already closing those impossibly red lips around the head of his cock. John let him suck it for a while, admiring the contrast between Soren’s nakedness and his own nearly public appearance. But the sight and sensation were too much to bear for long, and anyway he wanted Soren sweating—wanted to lick his skin and taste salt. He pushed Soren onto his hands and knees on the hearthrug. Then John positioned his cock at that tight, puckered arsehole and pushed against it, just with the tip, nothing too much, not yet.

  Soren moaned, and pushed back against him. John got the vial of oil from his pocket, sloshed some out and eased his way in, Soren writhing under him. Then he stopped for a moment, hands firm on Soren’s hips to hold him still, trying to think of something dull. He was sweating now himself; the suit was slightly restrictive, a little annoying. Next time he’d make Soren wear the clothes; he’d have him in that ridiculously tight Regency coat, naked from the waist down.

  Then he remembered there probably wouldn’t be a next time, and that Soren’s old clothes had been ripped to shreds in the fight and then lost somewhere. That helped him calm down anyway.

  He began to move, gently at first, then harder. Soren tried, once, to frig himself, and John thrust really hard, making him grunt and whip his hand back down to the floor to stop himself falling. The firelight was shining now on Soren’s naked back and his breath was coming in whimpers.

  John grabbed a handful of Soren’s hair and twisted his face towards the fire. That was better. Soren’s mouth was open, eyes tight shut. His face was blood red in the firelight, sweat dripping onto the rug. His hair, in John’s hand, was dark with sweat.

  “Christ, John, please,” he panted.

  If he could still manage words, they weren’t finished. He let go of Soren’s hair and shoved him onto his forearms. Then he thrust harder and at a slightly different angle. Another “please” turned into a cry. Too loud? He didn’t care. There was no trace of the elegant lord now; Soren was wailing into the hearthrug, hips bucking. John reached around and wrapped his hand around Soren’s cock. Soren gave a strangled cry, then another, and another. John thrust extra hard, and was lost in a world of heat and pleasure so fierce, it was like fucking a man of fire.

  At the very end, he ran his tongue up Soren’s spine, feeling him shudder and gasp and clench tight around him, one last time. Soren’s sweat was salt in his mouth, like the sea, like tears, like the stuff of magic.

  ***

  Afterwards, Thornby undressed John with care and they got naked into bed. Thornby glanced down at the cluster of pins that stood by the bed. “No octopus,” he said, unsure whether to be disappointed or relieved.

  “The pelt’s yours now. Maybe that’s why. We don’t need any more clues. You’re free.”

  There was something final in John’s voice, as if he was saying goodbye. Thornby turned to look at him. And he could see that, although John might have forgiven him, he did not trust him. And he did not understand. There was a wary look in his eyes.

  “You know why I came back, don’t you?” Thornby said.

  John looked away, towards the fire. “Don’t say anything rash, will you? You’ve got a whole new world at your feet. Who knows what you might find there?”

  “But, John, I hoped, you know, that I could see you sometimes. I mean, not just sometimes. Whenever you like. If you have time. In London, or—or wherever.”

  There, he’d said it. Or at least, something approximating what he’d wanted to say. He couldn’t help remembering all the men—and quite a few ladies too—who’d burbled and stammered at him over the years. Now, at last, he knew what it was like; his tongue was limber as a sea cucumber and he felt about as intelligent, too. He’d never had any trouble making his wishes known in the past, but then he’d never really cared before. Right now, he cared so much, he felt he might die of it.

  “Is that what you want?” John said. “To see me in London?”

  “Don’t you want to?” Waiting for John’s answer was like waiting for release from Raskelf all over again. The seconds stretched into years.

  “You don’t owe me anything,” John said eventually. He put his hand over his eyes. “You know that, don’t you? I know I got you out of Raskelf. But you got me out of that ghastly thorn-bush. And out of prison, come to think of it. So, we’re quits. And Catterall will pay me.”

  “But it’s not because I owe you something! John, I wish you’d look at me.”

  Thornby pulled at his hand and John let him take it. John’s eyes were wet with tears; he rubbed them.

  “Sorry, it’s been a hell of a day. You’ve no idea how tiring it is, blasting holes in country houses and being arrested for murder. Of course, we can see each other in London, if you want to. Look at us, finally in a place where the walls don’t keep whispering at me. That cell was as bad as Raskelf.”

  The subject was being changed in a way that was not entirely satisfactory. But John was clearly trying to pull himself together. And he had agreed they would see each other again, even if he seemed somewhat lukewarm about it. Perhaps John preferred other magicians, men with whom he could discuss the things that really mattered to him. Thornby’s stomach lurched unpleasantly at the thought. But John had agreed they would see each other again. Thornby lay down against him, their legs tangled together.

  “So, no-one’s done magic here?” he said.

  “That old chest’s seen a bit.”

  “What does it say?”

  “Smugglers used it once. If anyone opened it, they saw smoked fish.” John’s eyes grew unfocused for a moment. “It’s never stored smoked fish. It thinks that’s funny. Didn’t know pieces of furniture could find things funny, did you? This bed does, you know. It thinks—”

  “Don’t tell me! I’ll never be able to fuck on a bed again.”

  “Promises, eh? I’ll have you over that chest in a bit. That’ll give it something to think about.”

  Thornby smiled. “Well, I’m not dressing you again. When you made me button your shirt, I really thought you were going out. You absolute cad.”

  “That’ll teach you to dive into the sea and forget about everything.”

  “I didn’t say that. I forgot I was once human.”

  “Isn’t it the same?”

  “No. It’s not.” Thornby lifted himself up on one elbow. John’s face was bruised and cut and there were lines of strain etched upon it. He needed to shave. “John, don’t you realise? I forgot about myself. And Raskelf, and everything. I’d have stayed in the sea forever, probably. But I remembered one thing; I remembered you.”

  John’s eyes widened, and, at last, the wariness in them melted away. “Me?”

  “Just you.” It came out in a whisper, and his breath hitched at the end. He wanted to say something else, to make it clear, to make John understand what it meant, but his voice seemed to have deserted him.

  But perhaps John understood anyway, because he touched Thornby’s cheek. With his thumb, he traced the swell of Thornby’s lips and the line of his jaw. And he looked the way he did when he was working magic; serious, intent, possibly a little frightening. And to be touched like that, so tenderly, with those listening hands, was as precious and as heady as freedom.

  Presently, John’s eyes closed and he fell asleep, his face pressed against Thornby’s chest. Thornby lay with his arms around him, and listened to him breathe. He was nearly asleep himself when he noticed that each slow breath John took was in perfect unison with the waves that broke outside on the shore. He’d have sworn the surf had been pounding faster not long ago, and thought it an odd coincidence.

  Or perhaps it was not a coincidence at all.

  If one has a selkie’s affinity for the sea, and the man lying next to one is a magician with an affinity for salt—perhaps, when you are both at peace, even the ocean will sleep.

  Chapter Fifteen

  John half-woke. The b
ed was warm and comfortable, and sleep swept over him again in a gentle wave. But noises from outside kept bringing him to the surface; the rumble of a cart, footsteps, men’s voices, the hum of London waking up. And yet, there was something not right. There was a high, shrill yelling, as though some careless theurgist had summoned something that was not yet under control. Perhaps he should go and—no, it wasn’t a new-conjured imp; it was seagulls calling. And he wasn’t in London, he was in Yorkshire, somewhere on the east coast.

  Everything came flooding back. Soren. Raskelf. The whole world telling him its secrets.

  Soren. He reached out, but his hand met cold sheets. He opened his eyes, taking in the bare expanse of pillow, the crumpled edge of the sheet, pale grey in the dimly-lit room. Perhaps Soren had gone out to relieve himself. Perhaps he’d be back any minute.

  John could count on the fingers of one hand the times he’d slept in a bed all night with a lover. Generally, he didn’t take the risk. After sex, it was safer to go home to sleep alone. But Soren had engineered last night’s opportunity, and John had been too tired to protest. In any case, he had not wanted to protest. It had been bliss to fall asleep with Soren’s arms around him. John had slept, feeling that if anything happened, Soren would deal with it. The sense of safety had been so profound it had been like something from childhood, when he’d still believed his parents invulnerable—his mother all-wise, his father all-strong.

  He waited, trying to cling to last night’s contentment, while the minutes lengthened. He could hear the sea. Half-asleep, he’d mistaken it for the distant sound of the city, but now its quiet, ceaseless rhythm was unmistakable, like the pulse of a lover when you laid your head on his chest.

  He turned over. The fire was out, and the white light of dawn was peeping around the edges of the curtains. He glanced over to the spot where Soren had dropped his clothes last night—those awful old things borrowed from a fisherman. They were gone, of course. Even the tarred jacket.

  So, Soren had gone out.

  Would he be back? Or had the sea called him again?