by C K Gold
“You and Orchid are all I have left,” he said. “All I want is to enjoy what time I can with you. To make the best of what we have. It took me a long time to realize what I truly wanted from you… with you. I’ll tell you that as many times as it takes for you to believe me. Put your faith in me again. My piece hasn’t been turned. It’s just a longer game than we ever imagined.”
Birch stole a look at him. Fang rose carefully and approached him like one would a skittish hound, all too aware of the forces they were both caught up in. But he wanted something for himself, something beyond destruction and revenge.
He stepped into Birch’s space and gently lifted his chin for a soft-mouthed kiss. Not the peck of their meeting in the Rose Maze or the desperation of Birch’s impulsive tongue-fucking at the Pearl. Not even the languid sessions of the past sultry days as they waited for the next rain storms. Just comfort, both offered and requested.
Birch was still under his lips for a moment, then opened up. A slip of tongue asked a question that Fang answered, letting Birch in, letting him drive. Birch buried a hand in his undone hair, the other skimmed under Fang’s loose shirt to grip his waist. Birch always kept his hands in safe places, over clothes, in neutral zones. Just the touch of bare skin was almost unbearably charged. Fang stifled a sigh as Birch’s hand skated up his back, tracing his spine from the hollow almost to his neck, drawing Fang’s shirt up as he went.
Fang reached for the post behind Birch’s head to support himself, but Birch took the opportunity to break the kiss. For a brief second, Fang squeezed his eyes shut to push down his disappointment, but Birch tugged insistently at his shirt. It had to go. Fang obeyed. The kiss and Birch’s hands were their only points of contact. Perspiration broke out over Fang’s skin now that he was half naked, their positions reversed.
He took a gamble and stepped in. Birch stepped back, but his hands settled on Fang’s bare skin, exploring all the flesh he’d exposed. Step by step, Fang guided him toward the bed. Birch stiffened when the back of his calf struck it, but Fang turned them around and sat back, pulling Birch down with him until his only choices were to kneel astride Fang’s lap or break away.
Surprisingly, Birch didn’t break the kiss. He settled gingerly, all his weight borne by his knees. Fang had to crane his head back, but finally he was emboldened to reciprocate, pulling Birch’s shirt away and admiring him again. Sweat glistened in the hollow of his throat. Fang dipped his head and dared a taste. The touch of his tongue won a slight shudder, and Birch dug his fingers into the meat of Fang’s shoulders.
He settled his hands on Birch’s waist and they traded sloppy, open-mouthed kisses until Birch finally relaxed into him. The pressure on his cock was delicious torment for Fang, whose breath caught every time Birch squirmed. But Fang was determined to stay in control. He slipped a few fingers under Birch’s waistband, tracing sweat down past the curve of his lower back and resting against his ass. Birch made a small sound in the back of his throat, almost startled, and pushed Fang down on his back. Fang’s hand caught in the waistband, pulling the string loose so that his trousers fell further, revealing a strip of pale skin and dark curls before catching against Birch’s very evident arousal.
Fang stared up as Birch licked his glistening lips. As the sun slowly climbed, the heat rose; even the opened windows provided little relief. Or maybe it was only Fang. Birch reached out and caressed him from the arc of his hipbone, up his taut stomach and over his nipple, coming to rest with his palm at the juncture of Fang’s neck and shoulder. He couldn’t quite hold still. His hips moved on their own, a quick thrust he reined in ruthlessly. Birch pulled back, his weight settling hot and heavy, and Fang groaned.
For once, Birch wasn’t spooked. Instead, he favored Fang with a heavy-lidded look and freed himself from his waistband. His spread legs held his pants partway up, lending a particularly indecent appeal. Fang had never looked at another man with desire until now; Birch’s cock jutted out, flushed deep and slightly curved. Birch’s hand glided along it slowly in a display of forwardness Fang had stopped expecting weeks ago. To see Birch now, stroking himself at an agonizingly slow pace, was almost too much. Fang’s own cock was trapped, pressing against the space just behind Birch’s balls and held back by taut linen.
Fang reached out, not for Birch’s cock but for his cheek. Birch turned his face into the touch. His tongue darted out, a flash of pink that caught Fang’s eye. He traced the glistening moisture left behind with his thumb and Birch drew the digit in, laving it with his tongue until Fang had to close his eyes or risk exploding. His hips moved in continuous jerks, held back but not entirely controlled. Birch took his other hand and guided it to his erection, enclosing Fang’s hand around the hot length of it while he drew in Fang’s fingers, one at a time. They stroked together until Birch’s cock was slick and Fang was grinding against him. Birch let his last finger free with a pop and shivered, eyes almost entirely closed.
Fang couldn’t take it. He flipped them, driving the air out of Birch’s lungs with a whoosh. Fang skinned out of his trousers. Birch watched, levering himself up on one elbow and lightly playing with himself; Fang snagged Birch’s waistband and pulled it free, revealing everything. Birch’s legs dangled over the edge of the bed. Fang knelt between his knees and wrapped a hand around Birch’s, firming their awkward grip. He hovered for a second, uncertain memories of soft mouths on his own dick playing through his memories. He knew what he liked; there couldn’t be too many variations. He gave the head a tentative lick, then engulfed it. Slightly salty, slightly bitter.
Birch gasped and curled over him. “You don’t have to,” he said, but his free hand lightly cupped Fang’s skull. Fang squeezed their hands together and slowly established a rhythm, guided by the languid pace Birch set and the deep moans he made when Fang got something right. Those sounds were enough to make Fang sweat. He gripped himself tightly, not ready to come yet, and quickened the pace. Birch seemed to be holding himself back as hard as Fang had; his touch was light and he didn’t thrust into Fang’s throat, scenarios he’d heard about in overheard bits of women’s gossip.
“Fang, I’m gonna,” Birch tried to warn him, but Fang pushed his hand away and bobbed all the way down. He ruthlessly suppressed the urge to choke. Birch said something, pulsing into Fang’s mouth and holding his head close.
Fang closed his eyes and concentrated on swallowing. It wasn’t so bad. It was actually satisfying. But he hadn’t gotten his own yet. Birch’s hand fell away. Fang pulled back, wiping his mouth. Birch looked wrecked, still panting, limbs askew. Fang climbed beside him and pressed a kiss to his throat. He rolled Birch’s hip to the side.
“Just hold your thighs together,” he breathed in Birch’s ear. Birch pushed back against them, fitting their bodies together. Fang thrust against his ass and shuddered. It was good, but not enough.
He slipped his cock between Birch’s sweat-slick thighs, gliding in the narrow gap at the top. Hot, tight, wet; he didn’t need much more than that, grinding against Birch, dick nudging the back of his balls. Birch’s thighs tensed and quivered. He laced their fingers together as Fang panted into the back of his neck. The urge finally overwhelmed him, building like a flood that swept him away. He spilled between those powerful legs, hard enough that weeks of bringing himself off alone seemed worth it at last.
Chapter 8
Fang had dropped off into a doze after making love and woke only because Birch kept shaking him.
“Get cleaned up before it dries on you,” Birch said.
Fang yawned and eyed Birch’s nude form before accepting the cold, wet rag he offered. While Fang scrubbed, Birch got dressed, layers settling on him like armor. By the time Fang was fully clothed, the distance between them had returned.
Birch waited for him by the kitchen hearth. “I want you to get that stone back,” he said after a few minutes of mutual silence.
Fang shook his head. “Impossible. Getting it off that ship was my limit.”
“And if
you’d given it to me then, I wouldn’t have to ask you now.” Birch laced his fingers together, giving Fang a look borrowed from the same wise old teachers who’d tossed him out into the streets years ago.
Fang bristled. “We’ve already discussed it. My position is the same. The rock is meaningless; the captain even presented the governor with a fake. Or maybe ours is the fake, what does it matter? It’s a symbol, and not even one that means shit here.”
“It means something to him—” Birch cut himself off. His eyes were glued to something outside.
The ordinary noises of city life hadn’t dimmed; even the city birds, almost as numerous and nasty as its rats, still croaked at each other. But for Birch’s catlike fixation on what was outside, Fang wouldn’t have detected the danger until it was too late. He calmly passed Birch and picked up a machete hidden in the tools beside the hearth. After a split second, he pulled a fire poker, too, and just as casually handed it to Birch.
At the point where Fang grasped a weapon, the jig was up. He glimpsed movement by the window; just a bit of a sleeve, but it was someone where no one should’ve been. His apartment was surrounded. He grasped the stool as Birch watched the door, then spun and hurled it through.
The man dodged out of the way. Fang caught a glimpse of blue at his waist. The Knives, he thought. Now there was no more time to argue. Fang was almost grateful — he thought better on his feet. Someone crashed in through one of the windows on the other side of the apartment, out of sight for a moment.
Birch was on his feet. They didn’t have time to worry about who was out of sight; their hands were already full with the three Knives in the entryway. The poker blurred in Birch’s hand, landing punishing blows. The memory of that beating was still fresh in Fang’s mind as he engaged the fourth coming through the sitting room.
Birch fought in almost total silence, barely even breathing hard. That’s where his men got it from. Fang had no compunction about a roar. It focused his strength and had the side benefit of sometimes startling or intimidating his enemies. But the Knives knew him; they were too angry to be afraid after all the insults he’d dealt them.
And they’d seen him and Birch together. For all Birch’s bluster, Fang still didn’t believe he was as anonymous as he thought he was. That meant the Knives attacking him here had to die. No one could be permitted to connect them.
The battle was fierce and bloody and quickly over. Birch and Fang found their rhythm quickly, fighting first back to back while they were outnumbered, then working together to bait and confuse their foes as the numbers evened out. When it ended, five men lay dead in Fang’s home.
He cursed softly. Five stinking corpses to drop into the canal tonight. He started bundling the corpses in sheets and blankets; it’d be a long time before he could sleep here again. Next time, the Knives would send more men with a more vicious plan. They must have counted on him being alone. Four to do the dirty deed, one to see it was done.
“Tell me this isn’t business as usual,” Birch said.
“Well, I did assassinate their boss. You should go. I can get help from headquarters.”
Birch curled his lip. “That won’t be necessary. I don’t mind getting my hands dirty now and then.” He proved as much by helping Fang wrap up the bodies and scrub away the most obvious stains.
They sat outside on the roof when the deed was done, crouched in the shade. The atmosphere inside was too stultifying to bear. Flies had discovered the bodies quickly. The heat didn’t help matters.
“I thought we were dead for sure,” Birch said, tossing a piece of broken brick between his hands. “It was a mistake to focus on your brothers while these maggots are still around.”
His choice of words struck Fang as morbidly funny, but he didn’t laugh. “Leave them to me,” he said. “Don’t get dragged further into this gang war. Tell your followers to stand down for now. When I tell father what’s going on, the streets are gonna get hotter. There won’t be anything like honor or justice in what happens next.”
Birch shook his head, but didn’t argue.
Fang turned the day’s events over and over in his thoughts, but found no way to prevent anything other than simply not being in the wrong place. He’d wanted some distance from the prying eyes of his brothers. On the one hand, he’d been rewarded by finally leaving his mark on Birch. On the other, he’d had to kill a handful of men.
Ordinarily, he tried to leave as few bodies in his wake as he could. He was a killer, that much was certain, but he didn’t embrace needless slaughter. Even when it was in self-defense, he tried to avoid it. He loved to fight, to throw himself into battle. But he didn’t love the butcher’s bill at the end. Most of these men probably had families. They’d probably been ordered to come after him.
And he and Birch had fought so well together. It had been like having a second body. They moved in time with each other, no need to say what to do next. It was like they had never stopped practicing together. Everything had come back to Fang so naturally that he had enjoyed the fight, even the killing. It felt terribly natural.
“What now?” Birch asked.
“Guess I go back,” Fang said. “I’m too tempting a target out here. Otherwise, I’d have to bring my own men. Too much of a hassle.”
“It took you long enough to chase them off last week,” Birch agreed.
By sundown Fang was through with regret. He and Birch quickly moved the bodies, giving them a sea burial in the brackish canal. Weighted down with stones and broken pottery, they sank slowly and invisibly into the inky depths, where the crabs would quickly take care of them. It wasn’t an ending Fang envied, but it was one everyone on the wrong side of the law accepted as a possibility, him included.
“If you can get away, go to Abalone’s and send for me,” Birch said. He squeezed Fang’s shoulder and disappeared down a dark street leading away from the canals.
When Birch was gone, Fang murmured a prayer for their departing spirits, as much for their peace as to ward off their grudges.
⁂
Fang moved back into Big Wei’s old rooms with his paltry belongings. The furnishings all stayed at his apartment; all he brought were the clothes and few mementos, the things he didn’t want to lose to theft and vandalism. The second thing he did after tossing his things onto Big Wei’s bed was to snare a steady junior brother. Fang told him what to report to Red Hand and sent him on his way. Fang wasn’t ready to go before the old man again. He was too keyed up, too angry to trust himself not to lash out if the old man pushed him again. Striking back too soon would put all his plans to rest, and leave his own corpse to be eaten by crabs.
Goat stopped in the next morning. “I tried to keep it clean,” he said, looking down guiltily.
“It does smell better,” Fang admitted. “Or at least less like Big Wei.” He yanked down faded draperies stained by tobacco smoke and piled them up on the floor. Those were a total loss. The smell of smoke still clung to them, even though Fang could tell someone had aired and beaten them recently. Goat, he amended. The kid hauled the pile away to an unknown fate; maybe there was a market for yellowed fabric, Fang didn’t know. If Goat turned that mess into money, more power to him as far as Fang was concerned.
The rooms were nearly barren by the time he was through disposing of the weird trophies and stinking, ruined bits of furnishing. Some of the stuff was fine, while some just needed a little work, like the stained paper screens. Some things were simply bizarre, like the pickled monkey head Fang found in a glass jar covered in dust and grease. That he’d put outside; it vanished quickly, likely snatched by someone with the same disgusting tastes as Big Wei. Fang was glad he didn’t know who wanted such a thing.
Red Hand didn’t wait much longer for him to settle in before sending for him. Fang found himself waiting in the old man’s drawing room, drinking tea and reclining in an overstuffed chair imported from the far north. The cloth cushions were printed with small men beating hoops with sticks, being chased by dogs that were
being chased by cats. It was strangely nonsensical and not to what Fang understood to be Red Hand’s taste. Someone must have given it as a gift, and so here the ugly but comfortable thing stood, waiting to be seen.
The old man walked in, dressed in simple but fine red robes belted over long trousers. He wore exquisite leather boots, the kind that made Fang automatically calculate how many days of work something similar would’ve cost him as a member of the rank and file. He still had nothing nearly as fine himself. In fact, most of his finery had suffered tremendously of late.
“We haven’t seen much of you recently,” Red Hand said, considering him from the doorway. They were alone, a rare allowance from the old man. He usually kept his guards near, or even Jun. Fang supposed it meant he was now one of the few truly trusted men in the organization.
“I spent some time looking into who’s been interfering with my brothers’ affairs,” Fang said, carefully returning the porcelain teacup to the side table. “The Knives have been acting more organized sooner than I expected. The Society is still licking their wounds after that last fight. Some eyes tell me it was the Knives who put Ranu’s places to the torch. I’m thinking it was a mistake not to also kill all of Boar’s lieutenants.”
“Even you couldn’t have managed that alone,” Red Hand replied, waving it off. “Ranu shouldn’t have been so cheap with guards. He knows better. Come, I want to show you some things. The day is short and there’s much to do.”
They walked down to the northern warehouses, fortunately untouched by the fires set off during the riots. Dockside was a sprawling precinct dominating most of Deepwater’s riverfront, but it was also congested with slums and cheaply-built warehouses that seemed to burn down and build up with the passing of the seasons.
A few of Red Hand’s personally selected bodyguards followed, but by the old man’s standards, their procession from building to building was low-key. Red Hand explained his holdings, outlining the various ties that shifted money and goods in and out of the Four Winds’ hands. It was fascinating in a way; Fang had a better head for sums than most, and the sheer scale of the gang’s enterprise had never really been exposed to him before. The old man’s schemes dwarfed everyone’s, even Ranu’s.
