by Tamara Allen
Whyborne stood just behind me. “I’ve read about such spells,” he said in a tone of horror. “They’re used to drain vitality and prolong the life of the sorcerer past its natural span.”
The old carver let out a creaking laugh. “Life? What life lasts half as long as art?”
The devil? Had he lost his mind?
Whyborne clutched my shoulder. “Griffin—the carousel animals—this is why they’re so uncannily realistic. Why they . . .”
Why they moved when we weren’t looking. Every hair stood up on my neck.
“My first creations weren’t as lovely.” The carver stroked the mane of his latest project with a loving, skeletal finger. “Dull, clumsy.” His gray beard split, revealing yellowed teeth. “But I learned the secret.”
“Killing children?” I spat.
“They just fall asleep, that’s all.” The old man gestured almost tenderly toward Reggie’s prone form. “And then they ride the carousel forever. Just as they always wanted.”
God! My hand shook with horror and the need to put a bullet through his brain. But if I killed him, what would become of the boy? “Reverse what you’ve done to him. Now.”
The carver barely looked at us, so involved was he in his project. “I can’t. So you should just let me finish.”
Whyborne cleared his throat. “As long as Reggie hasn’t been drained to the point of death, he should recover whatever energy he’s lost, just as he would blood from a wound.”
Anger flashed across the aged face. “I don’t know who you are, but you’ve made a mistake coming here. The carousel wasn’t my first creation, and I’ve worked with more than children!”
A low scraping sound came from behind us. I risked a look and saw the automata beginning to stir.
They rose slowly, jerkily, like giant marionettes but without strings to pull. Their faces, frozen in joyful smiles, turned slowly to us.
I fired, sending wood chips flying everywhere. The automaton I’d shot didn’t seem to notice.
“Griffin!” Whyborne cried.
I spun around in time to see the carver lunging toward us with the chisel upraised like a weapon. Acting on instinct, I fired a second time. He proved far more vulnerable to the bullet than his creation. The chisel fell to the ground, and he went to his knees before collapsing altogether.
To my dismay, whatever magic infused the automata seemed to operate independently of the sorcerer’s life, because they continued to stagger forward, arms raised to grasp us.
“I’ll draw them off,” Whyborne said. “You save the boy.”
Before I could object, he snatched up a can of mineral spirits from the workbench. “Here, over here!” he shouted. “It’s me you want!”
His cries seemed to gather their attention, because they both turned toward him. They moved quite a bit faster now than at first, like men who’d woken from a long sleep and shaken the blood back into their limbs.
Whyborne ran out the workshop door, the unholy creatures following behind.
Damn it! I wanted to rush after him, but he was right—Reggie had to be my priority. I ran to the child, scuffing the chalk circle and kicking over one of the candles for good measure. The blue glow vanished.
Dropping to my knees, I pressed my finger to the boy’s neck. Although his skin felt chilled, his pulse beat strong.
I couldn’t leave him here, even with the old carver dead. What if something else came to life? Cursing silently, I stripped off my coat and bundled it around him before heaving his limp body over my shoulder. A small hand ax on the workbench caught my eye, and I snatched it up before leaving.
The tracks of Whyborne and his pursuers led straight to the gate to the midway. I ran to one of the deserted stalls, laying Reggie down behind the counter where he’d be concealed from any casual glance. Then, steeling myself, I ran for the carousel.
The light of Whyborne’s lantern flickered through the open shutter. Gripping the ax tightly, I plunged inside.
A wooden hand grasped my arm in an implacable grip, spinning me around and into one of the horses. I shouted and chopped wildly, not certain if I meant to strike the hand gripping me or the horse. The blade bit into nothing but air.
“Griffin!” Whyborne cried.
The automaton loomed over me, its smiling face horrible in its immobile joy. I swung the ax again, bringing it down hard on its wrist this time. There came a solid thunk, but its grip didn’t slacken.
Blast!
I kicked one of its jointed knees as hard as I could. It stumbled, but instead of letting go, it reached for my ax with its other hand.
Then Whyborne was there, bashing at it with the can of mineral spirits. I reapplied my ax, and a moment later its hand came off altogether.
And remained clutching my arm.
“You weren’t supposed to follow me!” Whyborne exclaimed, dragging us away from the automaton. We darted through the maze of horses and swans, putting as many obstacles between us and the murderous things as possible.
“I could hardly let you face these alone.” Curse it, did he really think I’d abandon him so?
“I appreciate the sentiment, but, well—stand back!” He tore the cap from the can of mineral spirits and splashed both of the automata closing in on us, then hurled the entire can at the scene panels in the center of the structure.
“We’ll have to get past the automata to the entrance,” he warned. Speaking a word, he called fire into being from nothingness.
The can of mineral spirits exploded, hurling fragments of tin in every direction. I flung myself down, dragging him with me. “Are you insane?” I demanded.
“I didn’t think it would do that!” he protested. And he wondered why I considered his dabbling in sorcery a horrible danger.
Flames roared through the carousel. In the flickering, leaping light, the carved animals had again shifted without my noticing, their painted eyes fixed on the two of us. Those between the automata and us had extended their legs to the fullest, as if they sought to gallop away—or to obstruct the smiling wooden horrors.
I could hear the whispers now even without pressing my ear to the carved animals. Only now the sounds were the screams of horses, the haunting cries of swans, the final roar of a tiger.
The carved animals had hampered the automata, but now they were almost on us. I hauled Whyborne up and ran, ducking and weaving between the charging horses and prancing giraffes, the snarling tigers and fluttering swans. Black smoke boiled from the growing fire, and I yanked the edge of my suit coat across my mouth, struggling to breathe.
The mineral spirits coating the automata went up from the heat of the flames, transforming them into a pair of torches. Their arms flailed like those of burning men, but no sound escaped them. The paint on their faces began to bubble, but their carven lips still turned upward into smiles.
I dragged Whyborne through the roiling smoke in the direction I hoped led to the exit. A few seconds later, we tumbled out into the clear air and snow. I coughed and spat out phlegm black from the soot. As I stood, the wooden hand still gripping my arm began to slacken . . . then slowly fell away altogether.
“Fire cleanses,” Whyborne said, his voice rough. He gazed solemnly at the burning carousel, as if at a funeral pyre. And perhaps, in a way, it was. “If any consciousness remained trapped in the carvings . . . Well, they will be free now. It wouldn’t hurt to set the workshop on fire as well, before we go.”
We walked back to the workshop, hand in hand. Whyborne let out a soft gasp when he reached the door. The old carver’s body lay curled on the floor, a desiccated husk like the shed skin of some insectile thing.
I upended an entire can of mineral spirits on it, just to be sure, and we left the workshop in flames behind us.
A column of dark smoke already filled the night sky from the direction of the carousel. “We should hurry, before the fire companies arrive,” I remarked.
“We do seem to find ourselves saying that rather frequently,” Whyborne rep
lied.
“It can be our motto. We’ll have it worked on a heraldic shield. I imagine it sounds far better in Latin.”
He snorted and took my hand. “Come on. Let’s return Reggie to his family.”
By the time we reached the Daltons’ apartment, Reggie revived enough to speak.
“No, stop,” he mumbled as we reached his family’s door.
“It’s all right,” I said as Whyborne knocked. His body felt so small in my arms. “The old man is gone.”
Reggie frowned up at me in confusion. “I had a dream . . .”
“That’s all it was. Time to wake up.”
His parents and brother flung their arms about him, weeping with joy. Then Mrs. Dalton embraced Whyborne, swearing eternal gratitude. It was everything I could do not to laugh aloud at the look on his face.
When we left, Timothy and Reggie curled together on their bed, the wooden train across both their laps. Reggie leaned groggily against his younger brother, who held him tight, as if having failed once, he meant to keep away all the bad things in the world from now on.
“A good day’s work,” I said as we let ourselves into the house. Saul ran inside after us and went to investigate his food bowl.
“To be finished with a good bath, I hope,” Whyborne replied, brushing at the soot stains on his coat.
“Most certainly.”
Our house had running water, but wasn’t quite new enough to have a dedicated bathing room. After locking up and drawing the curtains, we fetched the tin bathtub and carried it into the kitchen. I connected a pair of hoses to the hot and cold taps at the sink and used them to fill the tub while Whyborne gathered towels, soap, sponge, and shampoo paste.
When I’d bought the house, I’d purchased only the standard sized tub. But after Whyborne moved in, we’d agreed the larger tub was worth the cost of five dollars. So I stripped off my sooty clothing and set it aside with some anticipation.
Whyborne returned just as I shut off the taps. His face lit with an appreciative smile upon seeing me naked.
“Shall I scrub your back?” I offered.
“To begin with,” he agreed.
I climbed into the steaming water, grateful for its warmth. Whyborne undressed, shivering a bit in the chilly air. I had been with men society would declare more handsome, yet something about him stirred me from the first moment I saw him, all long limbs and spiky hair, his eyes beautiful even given his tendency to squint.
Not to suggest his eyes were the only unusually attractive portion of his anatomy. But I’d not seen the other until after I’d already lost my heart to him.
He climbed into the bath with me, the water rising dangerously close to the lip as he settled between my legs, his back against my chest.
The touch of his bare skin seldom failed to bring my cock to attention, and tonight proved no exception. I lathered up the sponge and ran it over his chest, pausing to toy with the nipples. He made a soft sound of pleasure and tipped his head back for a kiss.
“You worried me,” I murmured against his lips. “When you ran off with those awful things after you. I was terrified I wouldn’t get to you in time.”
“I had a plan,” he protested.
“I didn’t mean it as a criticism, my dear.” I kissed him again, the sponge dipping lower. “Without your bravery, things would have gone very differently tonight.”
“I’m not the brave one,” he said.
I nipped the nape of his neck lightly with my teeth, making him yelp. “You helped a great deal with my investigation,” I murmured against his skin. “It’s only fair you get your reward.”
He flashed me a heated look over his shoulder. “Then give it to me.”
I abandoned the sponge and explored lower with my fingers. His cock poked up eagerly to meet my touch. I rubbed the head, drew a groan from him. “Get on your knees.”
He obeyed immediately, bracing himself on the sides of the tub. I rose onto my knees as well. His crease was slippery from the soap, so I pressed my cock between his buttocks even as I wrapped my fingers around his erection.
I drew a moan from him, and he pushed back against me. I kissed his back, my prick sliding deliciously in the cleft of his ass. His cock was hard in my hand, and I tugged him in time with my movements.
He grunted my name, helpless with lust. I closed my eyes, breathing deep of his scent, like a fresh sea breeze. Everything I needed was here in my arms: his body, his passion, him. He was home, as truly as any home I’d ever known, and the moments of peril only made those of peace all the sweeter.
“Griffin, please, faster,” he begged, and I complied. I rubbed against him, his buttocks tight, my cock sliding across his hole and making him gasp. His prick stiffened further in my grip—then he bucked against me, body shaking as he cried out, spilling over my fingers and into the bath.
The sweet friction against my prick, combined with his climax, drove me over the edge a moment later. I let go of his cock, gripped his hips, and rutted hard against him until I shook and moaned and came.
Boneless, I collapsed back into the tub, sending water splashing over the sides. At the moment, I couldn’t bring myself to care. Whyborne settled against me, equally limp.
We didn’t speak for a while. My mind drifted from the sated present to when we’d taken Reggie home. How happy his family had been. How his brother cried with joy to have him back.
This was my home. Here with Saul and my Ival. I’d been so afraid to try to find my brothers . . . but even if they rejected me, I’d still have this. Still have the man in my arms. Nothing would change that.
“I love you, Ival,” I murmured into his hair.
He snuggled more tightly back against me. “I love you, too.”
“I think . . . I think I’ll send the letter tomorrow.”
He tensed against me for a moment. Then he relaxed and took my hand in his, twining our fingers together. “Of course. I’ll do whatever I can to help.”
I kissed him gratefully and held him until the bathwater grew cold.
About Jordan L. Hawk
Jordan L. Hawk grew up in North Carolina and forgot to ever leave. Childhood tales of mountain ghosts and mysterious creatures gave her a life-long love of things that go bump in the night. When she isn’t writing, she brews her own beer and tries to keep her cats from destroying the house. Her best-selling Whyborne & Griffin series (beginning with Widdershins) can be found in print, ebook, and audiobook at online retailers.
Contact
Website: jordanlhawk.com
Twitter: twitter.com/jordanlhawk
For Julie
The hushed tones of the evening prayer stopped when the chapel doors were flung open. William, who always struggled to settle his mind and emotions just after training, craned his neck.
A black-clad sergeant brother rushed along the aisle towards Master Arnauld, who awaited him with calm and dignity. William found himself straining to listen to their whispered exchange; already, his blood was coursing faster, his body straining to stand and fight instead of kneel.
Master Arnauld thanked the sergeant with a nod, then swept his gaze over the gathered brothers. “To arms, with God’s will.” The room erupted into fast, efficient movement.
The knights who had just come in from arms training gathered in the yard; others rushed to squires waiting with armour, horses and weapons. William spotted his squire Hamo waiting for him near the gates, the dappled grey destrier pawing the parched ground as if the beast were imploring them to make more haste.
William strode towards them. “What is this about?”
“Saracen incursion. They attacked a group of Christians on the road, not far from here.” Hamo placed William’s white cappa round his shoulders. “One boy escaped to beg for help.”
“He lived?” William mounted the warhorse, which shifted eagerly underneath him.
Hamo shrugged. “He had a couple arrows sticking out of him. Damned heathens must have thought him dead.”
Sa
racen incursions were, sadly, a frequent occurrence ever since the dog Saladin had found his courage and started to attack the Christian heartlands.
His destrier tossed its head, and William reached down to pat the stallion’s neck.
Finally, all the knights were mounted; further back, the sergeant brothers, more numerous, had gathered around their commander too. William put on his helmet, then gripped his lance, his sword and mace girded at his side. The master signalled and the knights rode out into the searing sun, falling into formation out on the road. Once through the gate, their horses broke into a canter, and William’s heart widened, opened.
Bernard of Clairvaux had described the Templars as lions in war and lambs in the convent. But as much as William had tried, he couldn’t for the life of him imagine what a lamb would feel like. While their sacred rule forbade falconry and all other hunting, they were allowed to hunt lions; William had once stood over a slain lion, then knelt and touched one of those fearsome paws, gazed into the golden eyes. Even in death, his red blood buzzing with flies, the lion had looked nothing like a lamb.
Just then, William thought he heard screams, even through the helmet; shrill sounds of fear and agony carried far in this land. He couldn’t be sure over the noise of hooves and his armour, but then the master signalled the charge.
The knights moved closer together, thighs almost touching as the formation tightened closed, horses reaching and straining, foam splattering the cloth coverings of white and black and red. White for their purity. Black for the terror in the hearts of the heathens. And the red, red cross of martyrdom.
They came over the hill, and the sight below made William’s breath catch in his throat. He’d worried they’d be too late—and for some of the pilgrims, they were. Several lay dead already; others cowered, screaming for help. Amid them stood one man who had seized a Saracen sword and shield and fought against four heathens, an upturned cart to his back.
