by C. S. Poe
“Ms. Zelda’s Home for Wayward Agents,” Gunner answered.
I blinked a few times. “Did you just tell a joke?”
His mouth twitched as he crossed his legs.
Ms. Zelda, I presumed, smiled sweetly. “You overtaxed yourself, Agent Hamilton.” She moved to the table beside the bed, where a glass of amber liquid and a bowl of what looked like breakfast cereal sat, then picked up a hand mirror. She offered it and discreetly touched the hair at her own temple.
I took the mirror, raised it, and swore. “Damn it.” I brushed a fresh streak of steel gray hair back and tried to comb it underneath the brown with my fingers. It didn’t work. “Pardon my language, ma’am.”
“That’s quite okay, sir. This very thing happened a time or two to my brother.”
I raised my brows as she took the mirror and set it aside. “Your brother is a caster?”
“Was,” she said with another smile, but this one was hollow. “He passed in the war.”
I could barely catch my breath at her words, like they’d punched me in the chest and left me gasping with bruised and broken ribs. “I—I’m so sorry.”
She inclined her head in that polite way one does about such subjects, then motioned to the table again. “A hearty meal and a bit of brandy will right you.”
“Thank you.”
Gunner stood and opened the door as Zelda turned to leave. She requested he send for her if anything was needed, to which Gunner agreed, and after she lingered, blushed, and hastily saw herself out, he gently shut and locked the door.
“It’s your arms,” I stated.
“I know.”
“You’re going to cause an innocent woman to faint.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
I picked up the bowl of cereal, stirred the contents without enthusiasm, and looked at Gunner again. “Why’s that?”
“Because you enjoy looking too.” He inclined his head at the bowl and said while walking across the room, “Eat your breakfast.”
“It’s morning?” I asked before taking a bite.
Gunner pulled back the curtain at the window and early-morning sunlight seeped into the little room. “You slept through the fireworks.”
I grunted.
“And our New Year’s kiss.”
“This tastes like wallpaper.”
“Connoisseur of arsenic and lead, are you?”
I raised my head. “What?”
Gunner approached the bed, leaned down, took my chin, and kissed my mouth. His stubble tugged lightly against my own and sent a pleasant shiver through my body. “For auld lang syne, my dear.”
I smiled and leaned up for a second kiss. “Happy New Year.” As I pulled back and studied Gunner’s face, I noted that exhaustion was visible in the cracks of his porcelain expression. “Have you not slept?”
Gunner straightened his posture, his hand still on my jaw, thumb rubbing my whiskers. “We need to talk about what happened last night.”
“Lie down with me?” I asked, but it came out like a whisper.
Gunner nodded, circled the foot of the bed, and brought his abandoned chair to the door. He wedged the back under the knob, knelt to unbutton his shoes, and then took the bowl from my lap and set it on the table. Gunner offered the brandy, which I choked back in one swallow, and then he climbed into the too-small-for-two bed.
We both lay on our side, staring at each other. I reached a hand out, tentatively slid my fingers between Gunner’s, and brought his hand to my neck. He caressed for a moment, the gritty roughness of his calluses against the bite causing my prick to stiffen. Then Gunner brought his hand up and fingered the new gray hair at my forehead.
“Mama’s side of the family.”
I swallowed hard and said, “I lied.”
“I know.”
“To survive.”
Gunner simply stared at me.
“How can anybody be so perceptive?”
“You’d rather I wasn’t?”
“I didn’t say that,” I replied. “I just… don’t understand how you can see what no one else ever has.”
Gunner threaded his fingers through my hair, his hand eventually settling on the back of my head. “We’ve both lived lives, Gillian. Mine made me an observer. Whatever you lived, it made you a survivor.”
A survivor.
I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose. “Sounds pathetic.”
“Survival is anything but.” Gunner’s fingers started playing with my hair once more. “I want to understand the magic you used last night. That’s all.”
I pulled my hand away from my face but didn’t look at Gunner.
“I’ve no qualms with pointing a Waterbury at a tanker and demanding a ride to a decent lodge outside of the Five Points—”
My eyes snapped open. “You didn’t.”
“I certainly wasn’t going to carry you for a dozen blocks.”
“Gunner—”
“This wasn’t anything like what happened in Arizona, Gillian. You were unresponsive the entire night. What would have happened if you’d been alone—left face-first in the middle of the road on the goddamn Bowery?” Gunner’s voice hadn’t risen, but his tone had become frighteningly emotional. “Best case, you’d have been robbed. Worst case, fucked and probably killed.” Gunner removed his hand from my head, rolled onto his back, and sat up. He swung his legs over the edge, set his feet on the floor, and stood.
I quickly followed his movements, but had to stop with my legs hanging off the side of the mattress as a wave of dizziness overcame me. I studied Gunner’s back—the rigid posture and firm line of shoulders. He put his hands on his slender hips and paced to the door. “Are you mad?”
Gunner made a quick about-face in his stocking feet. “I’m worried,” he corrected. “When I look at you, Gillian, I see an intensely private man, and I can respect those boundaries. But I also see heartache and shame and despair. And I see you using these long-ago-obtained sentiments to control the life you have now.”
“Are you done?”
“No.” Gunner returned to the bed, looking down at me. “I see a man who is terrified of himself. Of his magic—”
“I am not,” I said while hastily getting to my feet.
“Of his tendencies—
“How dare you?”
“And of his feelings.”
“You’re goddamn full of it,” I said, jabbing a finger into Gunner’s chest.
He ignored that and finished with, “I see a man who’s so desperate to keep surviving, he just lied to my face three times.”
Something inside me blew. Like the gasket on a steam contraption. Suddenly it was spewing scalding-hot vapors, pressure gauges were going haywire, and the escaping steam was hissing like a demon deep in the pits of Hell.
I started laughing as I said, “You want me to say you’re right? Fine. You are. About everything.”
“Gillian, that’s not the point.”
“I’m New York State’s only registered level five caster,” I explained. “Level five because if the federal government found out I can test much higher, I’d disappear. So I lied to the FBMS. And I’m not a physically appealing man,” I continued, thumping my chest. “I’m short. I’m small. I’m not handsome. And when a man isn’t fucking Adonis,” I said, motioning at Gunner as if to make my point all the more clear, “he becomes the butt of some very cruel jokes. So I deny my tendencies. But I just want to be loved so badly, Constantine. And every day I feel utterly ashamed of myself for it. I feel so gross for relishing the attention you show me, because my entire life, all I’ve heard is how terrible sodomites are. So I keep lying about everything because I don’t know any other way to live.”
The room had dimmed as clouds rolled across the morning sky. My face was wet with tears, but before I could raise a hand to wipe my cheeks, Gunner moved forward, wrapped his arms around me, and lifted me off my feet.
He hoisted me up enough that I could wrap my legs around his hips, and then he whispered in my
ear, “You’re loved, my dear.”
XI
January 1, 1882
The lines around Gunner’s eyes were more relaxed in sleep, but otherwise, his expression was remarkably unchanged. Still. Unperturbed. Maybe just a touch serene. Which I found incredible, considering what had transpired between us a few hours earlier.
But, I supposed, that was exactly the sort of person Gunner was.
He didn’t hold a grudge. He wasn’t easily hurt. And he didn’t lie. He simply said what he felt was necessary, in that polite yet brutal way he had about himself, and that was it. Gunner had told me exactly how he felt, called me out on lies he considered worth acknowledging, and—
You’re loved.
—and then he’d admitted something that I couldn’t ever imagine saying with such frankness as Gunner had.
He’d set me on my feet after that, wiped my face dry, and told me he needed to sleep. I’d managed to rest a bit myself, but for at least an hour, I’d been fitfully tossing as I replayed the exchange over and over in my mind. I had no doubt that Gunner had been sincere in his declaration, but what exactly did it mean for us? And had he noticed that I hadn’t… really admitted to anything?
At least, not the genesis of my troubles—past, current, and undoubtedly future.
“You’re a very loud thinker,” Gunner murmured.
I glanced at him. His eyes were still closed. “Sorry.”
“What’s wrong?”
“You don’t already know?”
“Well, I haven’t opened my eyes yet.”
“You’re a bit of a smart aleck.”
Gunner smiled a little, and it was devastatingly handsome. He reached out, found my face, and stroked my jawline. “Are you upset?”
“Embarrassed,” I corrected.
His eyes snapped open and zeroed in on me. “By what I said?”
“What? No. Heaven’s no. That was….” I struggled for the correct response as Gunner remained silent and let me slowly hang myself. “Er… nice.” God save me. “I meant me—my behavior.”
Gunner said nothing as he studied me. I had to resist the desire to squirm as he picked me apart. After what was only a few seconds—but could have been a century, as far as I was concerned—he tugged me forward and rolled onto his back, the momentum forcing me to straddle his leg.
“Tell me one thing,” he said, unbuttoning the rest of my shirt. “And don’t lie to me. Anyone else, but not me.” Gunner tugged the shirt free, tossed it aside, then did the same with my undergarment so he could splay his hands against my bare chest. “Understand?”
I didn’t trust my voice, so I simply nodded.
Gunner’s fingers danced along my ribs, lower still, until he could slip them into the waist of my trousers. “What level do you actually test at?”
“There’s no way to be certain. The examination only goes to five.”
“But high enough that it was necessary to intentionally botch your results for the FBMS?” Gunner popped the button on my trousers, then drew his hand down to touch me through the heavy fabric.
I gulped and said on the exhale of a shaky breath, “Yes. The Caster Regulation Act—I came forward because I decided it was—God, ah—better to keep my enemy close.”
Gunner removed his hand from where the attention was appreciated and lightly combed the hair at my temple. “And this?” His other hand settled on my backside, kneaded a bit, and encouraged me to move.
I rubbed myself against Gunner’s thigh as I said, “Overtaxed myself, as Ms. Zelda said.”
“How?”
“Gunner—”
“How?”
“C-casters have this—we call it a tap. When the tap’s open, there’s the take of raw magic in exchange for lifeforce energy. When the body reaches a point of physical exhaustion, the tap closes.” I was still rubbing myself against him, watching as Gunner hastily unbuttoned his own waistcoat and shirt. “It works like a muscle. It can be trained to handle more—some casters manage to go up one new level.”
“But?” Gunner asked as he laid bare his hard and hairy chest.
I reached forward to dig my fingers into his skin, rubbed the inside of my wrists against the black hair, and shuddered. “My tap never closes. Wh-when I surpass the threshold, it leaves physical indicators.”
“It’s different from the aether spell you performed in Arizona.”
I nodded and said, “Aether is just a pain in the ass. Reverse spells make the world distorted for a while, is all.” I drew closer, enough that I could lean over Gunner and bite his neck. He gasped loudly, and it sent a thrill straight to my balls.
“Harder,” Gunner growled, and he arched his back when I obliged. “What about architects?”
I let up on his neck—I’d left a deep purple mark that was unbearably exciting—and asked, “What about them?”
“Can they surpass level five?”
“They do,” I confirmed. I sat up, yanked Gunner’s braces from his shoulders, unbuttoned his trousers, and tugged them low enough to expose his hardened prick. “Gravity spells were constructed by an architect who surpassed the threshold of wind magic.” I kissed Gunner and dipped my tongue into his mouth the way he did with me. “I can only cast what architects have woven into the atmosphere.”
Gunner made quick work of my trousers and drawers. He shoved them to my thighs, spat into his hand, and reached down to stroke us together. “And what casters can perform gravity spells?”
“Liars,” I answered around a gasp. I had no inhibitions left in me and humped desperately against Gunner. “Now you tell me.”
“What’s that?”
“When we met—how did you know? That I was stronger than suggested?”
“I’ve worked a time or two with the magic community,” he said breathlessly. “You were dispatched without a partner. You were proficient in aether. Your—Jesus, Gillian—wind spell was strong enough to carry a full-grown man.” Gunner sucked hard on one finger before reaching around and pressing it against my hole.
I jumped but he stilled me.
“Just a bit—there, is that okay?”
It was an… odd sensation. Not bad, per se, but strange. I struggled to wrap my brain around the concept of something considerably thicker than a finger being at all comfortable, let alone pleasurable, despite some of my crudest fantasies. I tried to imagine enjoying receiving such attention, like the throes of passion Gunner had been in the night before, and the daydream was coming up short when finally faced with the reality. But then Gunner pressed deeper, angled his touch, and a sweat broke out across my entire body. It was like pinpricks of light—hundreds—thousands—consuming me from the inside out. Gunner brought me down into a kiss to silence my cries, and then I was coming and so was he and it was perfect.
Gunner rested his hand firmly on one bare cheek, stroking in an almost possessive manner. After he caught his breath, he asked, “Do you feel gross?”
“No.”
“I don’t expect you to think differently of yourself overnight.”
“I know.”
“Only that you try.”
I sat back on my knees and tugged my trousers into place. “We should go. Addison said Tick Tock is holed up somewhere around Mulberry Bend, and after his warehouse was blown up, who’s to say what his next move might be? I want to visit the docks as well—poke around a bit and see if we can narrow down the origin of these packages. Perhaps glean some intelligence on that Weaver fellow too, if Lady Luck is smiling upon us today.”
Gunner didn’t say a word as he wiped his stomach clean with the corner of the starched bedsheet. He got to his feet, pulled his trousers on, and opened the window wide. A cold rush of January air helped to quickly alleviate the smell of sex from the rented room.
I finished tucking my shirt in, tugged my braces over my shoulders, put my suit coat on, and collected my belongings from the bureau top—all carefully aligned by Gunner. I paused on the purple-tinted goggles, fingered the worn brass, wor
ried a minute dent along the bridge. “Constantine?” When I looked up, Gunner was staring at me from across the room, silently buttoning his waistcoat. “You were serious about what you said earlier.”
“Of course.”
“So what does it mean for… us?”
“What do you want it to mean?”
I was gripping the goggles now. “I think it would be difficult for me to see you with others at this point.” Gunner began walking toward me while putting his suit coat on, and I hastened to add, “But I would understand. I should like to find happiness with you, but I’m not nearly as comfortable with it all as you are. I am trying, but it might take me… some time. We’re also liable to be apart more than we’d be together. And let’s not forget you work to actively undermine all of the laws I represent.”
Gunner didn’t agree or disagree as he reached into the inner pocket of his suit. I expected Black Jack and continued silence before I’d eventually come full circle, tell him to forget I’d said anything, and we’d leave it at that. But instead, Gunner held up the receipt from Bartholomew Industries that I carried on my person like a religious talisman.
I touched my own breast before reaching inside the empty pocket. “How did—?”
“It slipped from your pocket as I was undressing you last night.” He eyed the folded note. “It’s rather worn out.”
“Paper doesn’t have much of a life expectancy.”
“Why did you keep it?”
I felt myself flush and struggled for nonchalance. “You—you said you were mine.”
Gunner smiled. He tugged back the lapel of my coat, tucked the receipt carefully into my pocket, then patted my chest. “That’s right.”
XII
January 1, 1882
We left Ms. Zelda’s boardinghouse around ten o’clock that morning and made a brief trip uptown to The Buchanan. Between the smell of smoke on my clothing and sex on my person, I was feeling particularly grubby, never mind that I was in desperate need of a shave and had also lost my hat amid the chaos from the night before.
After our detour, we walked east toward the Second Avenue El. Gunner was, of course, gorgeous in another head-to-toe black wardrobe, save for the glint of his silver watch chain. His face was smooth—I had, erm, made certain of that before stepping out the front door of my apartment—and despite his preferred perfume being near a decade out of style, I couldn’t imagine anything more fitting than the spicy woodsy Sandringham he wore.
